


A Portrait of Two Gentlemen

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/F, I Tried to Keep It Subtle, Including Many Things, Like Homophobia and Sexism and Racism, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Research, Social Justice, Suitcase Family, They're all wizards, Vague Steampunk, You're All Going to Call This a Slow Burn But It Isn't, implied future relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: New York, 1885. The political aspirations of the Tammany Hall Democrat machine. Immigrants. Newsboy strikes. The birth of yellow journalism. Circus kings. The fledgling stars of Broadway. New industrial magic. The advent of the airship. Credence Barebone, the lost heir to a robber baron’s fortune, stumbling straight into the world of upper-class New York as he tries to claim his rightful place in society. Percival Graves, police superintendent for New York’s Finest, struggling to hold the rule of law together in a city staggering under the weight of corruption.It’s said that, in New York, you can be a new man. Graves has never believed that, but looking at Credence he might just be able to believe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Binary_Sunset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binary_Sunset/gifts).



> HI AND WELCOME TO YOU ALL! This is my fic offering for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction, written for my bidder Binary_Sunset, who requested a Victorian AU, with all possible Gradence, steampunk elements, a healthy dose of social justice, and as much general research I could pack into a single fic. I hope this is what you were seeking, my friend!
> 
> That said, y'all need to bear with me. I did research. I kept track. I wrote footnotes.
> 
> And they're LONG.
> 
> A big thing to note before we get going: EVERYONE IS A WIZARD. Magic is what it is, they can all do it, they’ve all got wands. Presumably there are some restrictions on who can cast what magics—it should be pretty clear that Graves remains a formidable combat wizard, but will be surprised to learn that Seraphina Picquery is a great duelist herself. I didn’t go into the nitty-gritty here. It’s all magic, okay? 
> 
> Everyone, just this once, gets to be a wizard. 
> 
> Update schedule is the usual: Monday, Wednesday, Saturday.

New York City in the grand year of 1885 is a city on the turn of a decade, the forward-thinking city of the future. The stars glitter on Broadway, the newly-opened Brooklyn Bridge connects Manhattan to Brooklyn, the new airship docking tower stands tall and proud over the city skyline, and the eyes of the world watch as the greatest city leads the charge toward the millennium. In New York, it is said, you can be a new man.

Credence Barebone dearly hopes that this is true.

He watches the city skyline approach from the bow of the airship carrying him to what is supposed to be his home. New York glitters and gleams, a diamond on the edge of the Atlantic, impossible and beautiful. It seems like something out of a dream.

Though the summer sun is hot, the breeze remains chill at this altitude, and that is a reminder that Credence really is awake. Still, he doubts. It isn’t possible, is it? Can this really be happening?

“My dear boy,” Mr. Grindelwald says, stepping up beside him as if he’d heard Credence thinking, “this is really happening. You may be ascending from the very bottom of society, but I do believe that the world will never be the same when you are finished with this city.”

“Thank you, sir,” Credence says, glancing at the man, ducking his head a little.

Mr. Grindelwald claps him on the shoulder. “I’m not a ‘sir’ anymore,” he says with a dazzling and confident smile. “Never forget, Credence, that you are the equal of any man in the world.”

Credence doesn’t reply, looking forward instead. They’re flying over the harbor, now, sailing forward toward the docking tower. The ships below, the ships they might have taken if Credence weren’t suddenly so wealthy, seem small. When they dock, he’ll be headed to claim his fortune, to take his place in the great pageant of New York City, at long last.

***

It’s not every day that a lost heir to a fortune comes to New York City. Indeed, it’s quite exceptional, but even so, a police presence shouldn’t have been necessary. That doesn’t mean Graves has a choice about being there; when John Kelly asks you to jump, you only ask how high. This doesn’t, however, mean that Graves has to be happy about it. His opinion on the matter is that a young man with a new fortune should be able to take care of himself. But no one asked him anyway.

“Sir, I don’t understand why I’m here,” Tina says, breaking Graves from his reverie.

Graves looks at her. Tall and thin, dressed in unstylishly old but well-kept clothes, hat modest and bangs gradually straightening out of their attempt at a more stylish frizz, Porpentina Goldstein looks nothing like a police officer despite the badge on her jacket. Looks don’t signify: Tina is a matron, working at headquarters with prisoners of a female persuasion.

Though some people sneer, Graves never does. It takes a great deal of skill and courage to work on the police force, even for a matron. For instance, following the example of Britain, they _do_ use Dementors for prisoner escort to larger penitentiaries, which means that every official has to be able to cast a Patronus Charm. It’s a difficult spell, one that many patrolmen can’t cast, and Tina can do it with aplomb. In another time, Tina might have been a patrolwoman: Graves hasn’t quite managed to overcome bureaucracy to make that happen yet.

“You’re here because I need someone watching my back,” Graves says, returning his gaze to the entrance of the bank.

“Why not bring a regular constable?” Tina persists. “You know what people say about me, Mr. Graves. The sort of person always turning up where I’m not wanted.”

He’s not particularly comfortable with this conversation, but it seems he’ll have to have it anyway, with Tina insisting. Graves looks at her again, this time with sympathy, and smiles. “Right now, Miss Goldstein, that is _exactly_ the kind of person I need.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve proven yourself trustworthy,” Graves says. He sighs. He’s very bad at this sort of conversation, but the moment has come to be honest. “You’ve stopped two jailbreaks, fought off three Dementors, and handle twice an ordinary patrolman’s workload, all on half the regular salary. There are patrolmen of thirty years who I wouldn’t trust to light a cigarette, but I’d bet on you to chase down the worst outlaw any day.”

She objects: “But—”

He can’t have her thinking like this when they’re on an assignment, so he cuts her off. “I don’t know why you stay with us, Goldstein, with all you put up with. But I’m damn grateful.”

Tina looks like she’s choked on whatever she was going to say, and doesn’t say it.

Just as if she were one of his regular patrolmen, Graves claps her on the shoulder. She doesn’t need the other part—the part that knows for a fact that Tina isn’t on anyone else’s payroll, and that she’s therefore more trustworthy than anyone else. He’s just glad that she’s here.

With a sigh, wondering what kind of person this missing heir will turn out to be, Graves turns back to the entrance, and waits.

***

The arrival at the docking tower leaves Credence with a harum-scarum impression of the city right from the start. There are porters to carry bags, wealthy people going up and down the elevators, all kinds of chaos. It’s golden and glittering and beautiful. Credence can barely believe that he’s here, that he’s in New York, soon to be one of the rich men of the city. Mr. Grindelwald seems perfectly at home, his manner impeccable, his speech cultured as he brushes shoulders with all the city. Though his clothes are all new, Credence feels small and shabby by the man’s side.

From the docking tower, they take a cab to the bank. It’s in the middle of Manhattan Island, and Credence can’t stop gaping. The streets are glorious, a rush of people like he’s never seen. Streetcars clang away; people of every size and sort dash to and fro. He even spots a pair of well-dressed centaurs, courteously staying on the street as they make their way through the city.

“Here we are at last,” Mr. Grindelwald says, as the cab slows before the steps of a great marble edifice. This is a branch of the Gringotts Bank, founded in England and run by goblins. Though there are many other banks, run by ordinary people, it’s well-known that the best and brightest of the world keep their money in the hands of Gringotts.

Credence ascends the steps beside Mr. Grindelwald, feeling frighteningly like a thief. They enter the bank side by side to be greeted by two police, a man and—of all things—a woman. Credence might be inexperienced in the ways of the world, but a woman in the police is unheard-of. She wears a police badge, a dress of navy worsted serge that’s unstylishly narrow and lacks a significant bustle, and a plain flat-topped felt hat. And she’s not carrying a reticule. Next to the policeman, she looks about as uncomfortable as Credence feels right now. Looking at her thin, tense face and wide eyes, Credence instantly feels a kinship with her.

But she isn’t the one to greet them. The policeman steps forward, offering a hand. “Police Superintendent Percival Graves,” he says. Mr. Grindelwald shakes his hand and they exchange stilted pleasantries, but Credence misses the details. He’s too busy staring.

The Superintendent is, by any standards, an incredibly handsome man. He’s shorter than the woman with him, but broad of shoulder and deep of chest. Clean-shaven and already beginning to go just a little gray at the temples, he presents a perfect picture of late-middle-age manliness. His clothes are sharp and obviously expensive and beautifully made, though Credence has never seen anything like his dramatic coat before in his life. There’s a look of honesty in his eyes. He has an air of total command and, when he looks at Credence, a stunning smile.

All in all, he may quite possibly be the most beautiful man Credence has ever seen.

***

Graves is astounded by the young man. This Grindelwald man, apparently one of Kelly’s acquaintances, a generous supporter of Tammany Hall, is uncomfortable to look at. His eyes are unsettling. But his young charge is stunning. He’s perhaps as tall as Tina, taller than Graves, or he would be if he stood up straight. In form he looks reasonably athletic, and by any standard he’s well-proportioned. He’s only just, as Grindelwald informs Graves, of the age of majority, but something about his dark eyes suggests hard experience. His shy manner doesn’t hide his keen gazes, and he can’t possibly hide his lovely face. His hair is unstylishly long, but Graves thinks he looks magnificent with it.

Where on Earth did someone like Grindelwald turn up this young Adonis?

“Percival Graves,” Graves says, doing his best to be charming and actually smile. “And you are—?”

“Credence Barebone,” the young man says in a soft voice. He’s acting a bit like a deer among the hounds—and quite rightly, considering exactly what goes on in New York society. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graves.”

Graves introduces Tina, and though he sees some disdain in Grindelwald’s eyes the man still greets her charmingly. Barebone gifts her a genuine smile, really a dazzler, and Graves sees Tina’s eyes light up for the first time in weeks. It looks like they’ve hit it off already.

All of them are impatient, so little more time is wasted on pleasantries. When the greetings are over, Grindelwald goes straight up to a well-dressed goblin and informs him that this young man is the heir to the Faris family fortune.

The goblins are alarmed at Barebone’s appearance, although their alarm looks more like a profusion of whispers and a great battery of tests designed to confirm Credence’s identity than actual shock. His magical signature is tested, his memories are analyzed, and so on. After an hour or so, Barebone is declared to be exactly who he says he is, and is allowed to lay claim to his fortune.

One might expect it to be an occasion of joy, but Barebone looks more frightened than delighted. Graves has a great deal of sympathy for the young man: he looks utterly stunned by the windfall. Given the hints of his background that Graves has heard or guessed, he’s never had more than perhaps a dollar at a time in his whole life.

“Nearly forty-two million dollars,” Grindelwald says, clapping Barebone on the shoulder where he sits at a desk, signing page after page of paperwork. “A fortune! If wisely invested or donated to the appropriate philanthropies…”

“I believe it’s up to Mr. Barebone,” Graves cuts in mildly. Something about this Grindelwald character disturbs him, though he can’t put his finger on what.

Grindelwald smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Quite right,” he says.

Barebone looks up at Graves and smiles, and at the sight Graves gets the distinct feeling that this is not the end of his dealings with the young man.

***

Mr. Graves and Mr. Grindelwald both head off in separate directions shortly after Credence has signed the papers. Mr. Grindelwald suggests that Credence perhaps look into acquiring new clothes, things a little more refined than he currently possesses; Mr. Graves, after a moment’s consideration, leaves Miss Goldstein with him. “Not as an escort,” he assures, “but you look like you need a guide.”

And then they’re gone, off on their own business, and Credence and Miss Goldstein are left staring at each other in blank astonishment.

“This has been the strangest day,” Miss Goldstein says, just as Credence says, “I’ve never had a day like this before—”

She laughs when he stops, flummoxed, and nudges him with her elbow in a companionable kind of way. “We’re both a bit out of our depth,” she says. “I like the suggestion of shopping. Shall we?”

“We shall,” Credence says, relieved by her confidence, and offers his arm to her. She takes it with a faint blush and off they go.

New York is _terrific._ The streets bustle, the buildings rise high. On street corners are newspaper boys, some not too much younger than Credence, hawking the latest papers. Even the shabbiest women seem to shine with some inner glamor, some understanding that this is a great city and they are part of all of it. Or maybe that’s just the stars in his eyes.

They’re near enough to the “Ladies’ Mile”, that great block of department stores, that it’s not too bad of a walk. Tina carries herself boldly, but Credence can tell she’s as nervous as he is. Her shoulders are set high and her gaze flicks about constantly. And with good reason: the people here are incredibly grand and dashing. Handsome women in day dresses of all colors with beautiful hats, gentlemen engaged in business or so wealthy they’re simply at their leisure. Everyone going somewhere. No one ever stopping.

Tina suggests Lord & Taylor’s and Credence agrees. It’s a chaos of shopping, and he hardly knows what to buy, but there are people to help and he accepts their offers gratefully. All the assistants are able hands with tailoring magic, and in short order Credence has perfectly suitable clothes.

Only once does he deviate from “necessary” spending—he sees Tina looking rather wistfully at a dove-gray jacket with two rows of steel buttons; he quietly slips it into their purchases and decides to give it to her later. There’s a certain thrill in being able to simply give her something like this. He likes her, even though they were only acquainted this morning.

After some discussion on the sidewalk, they decide that they ought to go to Tiffany & Company to look for a good watch. Credence has their bag—everything fits because of the Undetectable Extension Charm cast upon it—on one arm and Tina’s arm in his other.

He’s not really paying attention to anything but the orderly chaos of the streets when Tina shouts, pushes him aside, flings up her wand, and casts a Shield Charm. A spell ricochets off the shield, cast out of nowhere. People are screaming in panic and Tina is yelling at him, telling him to hang on, and turning in place as they Apparate right out of the middle of the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the mid-late 1800s in New York City, the growing Irish immigrant population found a political base in the society at Tammany Hall. By the 1880s, the organization was a political machine designed to influence legislation. It was infamous for scandals of corruption—bribery, rigged votes, and more.
> 
> In 1885, the boss at Tammany Hall was “Honest John” Kelly. In his early days as a member, he fought against the much more famous “Boss Tweed” alongside some other parties. They won and reorganized the political machine, to wide acclaim, and in 1874 Kelly took his place at the helm.
> 
> This same year, Grover Cleveland was president. Tammany Hall’s leadership disliked him because he promised to clean up NYC corruption. Additionally, William Grace was the mayor of NYC beginning in 1884, and his reform government opposed them. At the moment this story is set, Tammany Hall is not winning the political popularity contest.
> 
> Graves’ job comes from an actual historical figure: Police Superintendent William Murray. Thanks to Augustine Costello’s 1885 “Our police protectors: history of the New York police from the earliest period to the present time”, I was able to identify Graves’ exact position on the police force and his exact job. He’s the Superintendent and, [on page 307 of the book](https://archive.org/details/ourpoliceprotect00cost_0), you can begin to get an idea of what his career would have looked like, and his daily habits and duties. 
> 
> Given inflation rates, “nearly forty-two million dollars” would be worth around a _billion_ dollars in today’s money. For comparison, in 1904 Rockefeller’s Standard Oil was worth about $300 million in terms of assets (as given in Standard Oil data from Eliot Jones, ''The Trust Problem in the United States'' (1921) p 88.). In today’s money, THAT is about $7,779,000,000, or nearly $8 billion. 
> 
> Credence is stupidly rich, you guys.
> 
> Women on the police force have a fascinating history. Officers’ wives have always served functions around the police force, but beginning in 1845 the NYC police force had women as matrons, managing prisoners of a female persuasion for modesty’s sake. In 1891, Marie Owens was given the title of “patrolman,” though her duties still revolved around women and children. The first sworn female police officer, with the power to conduct arrests, was Lola Baldwin in 1908. 
> 
> Jewish police, too, have a fascinating history. Most of my research here revolved around the cultural conflict faced by Jewish policemen, who see their civic duty in law enforcement but also have a seriously negative cultural history with police forces. There have always been Jewish members of the NYPD: in 1924, the NYPD saw the founding of its Shomrim Society, a fraternal and charitable organization whose membership accounted for 1% of the total force at the time. [You can see their website here](https://www.nypdshomrim.org/).
> 
> The Ladies’ Mile was the most fashionable shopping district in NYC, and the originator of many novel department stores such as Macy’s, Lord & Taylor, and Tiffany’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would help us all if I could remember my own damn posting schedule.
> 
> We'll get the hang of this.

The entire headquarters is a God-damned disaster by the time that Tina and Barebone stagger in, disheveled and clinging to each other. The shrieking of pigeons fills the main room as patrolmen take messages pouring in from across the city about a menagerie of terrifying magical beasts running free in the streets. Those damn social reform women occupy a corner, the Chinese lady dressing down a patrolman while the other clutches a cold compress over her bruised forehead; at the same time, they’re trying to book the rest of the rioters. And now Tina is saying things about murderers and explosions.

It is not, Graves thinks, physically possible for this day to get worse.

And that’s when the damn Shaw boy bursts into the room, already writing, shouting questions about it all over the din. Ridiculous boy, son of a newspaperman, who’s never happier than when he’s bothering Graves.

“—attempted _murder_ , Mr. Graves—”

“—inciting a riot in Harlem?”

“Message from below Canal Street about a horde of blue bugs—”

“—nothing wrong except standing on a _public street_ —”

“—couldn’t have been shooting at _me_ —”

“—cursing and tell me your name—”

“Is it true that—”

Enough is enough.

Graves taps his wand on his throat, amplifying his voice, and thunders, “ _ **QUIET**!_ ”

Blessed silence drops over the room as everyone stops and turns to look at him.

“We have significantly larger problems right now than all of you,” Graves says, downright glaring at all of them. “The menagerie loose on the streets is a public menace. Has anyone got the location of the individual responsible?”

“Scrying suggests a major issue in Central Park,” one of the police diviners volunteers.

“We’ll go there,” Graves says.

Shaw makes an indignant sound and steps into the doorway. “You can’t just leave!”

Graves ignores him. “I want every available patrolman searching and corralling these creatures. Miss Goldstein, with me, we’re going to Central Park.” Why he calls Tina specifically, he doesn’t entirely know, but he made Superintendent by trusting his instincts. Why stop now?

“We can’t leave Mr. Barebone alone,” she pleads.

Graves is getting a headache. “Then bring him along,” he says. He turns a glare on Shaw, who’s glaring right back. “And I know you’re going to follow us, so _stay out of the way_.”

***

Credence is fairly sure that he’s accidentally fallen into some other world. He’s hovering at Tina’s shoulder, watching Superintendent Graves stride through the park. The man is scowling as if he’ll hex the entire world, and it does seem like he might be justified. Credence has arrived on a rather bad day and he feels awkward for making more chaos. Though it’s not as if he meant to almost be murdered!

“Stay back,” Mr. Graves says to Credence as they approach an open space, where something is crashing and creaking and someone is yelling.

“Happily, sir,” Credence says. He drops back, though he does prudently draw his wand as they crest the hill and see—

“What is _that_?” Mr. Shaw demands, pointing at the vast beast beating its head upon a tree. Up in the tree is a man wearing a suit of armor, yelling; sprinting across the field is a man with a suitcase and a blue coat flapping behind him.

The tree goes crashing down and the man in it is spilled onto the ground, immediately breaking into a run himself, fleeing the great elephantine beast. Its horn is…glowing. Credence has never seen anything like this.

“Stunning Spell, Goldstein!” Mr. Graves commands.

Mr. Shaw grabs his arm. “You can’t! What if you injure the beast? Or only frighten it?”

With a furious look, Mr. Graves shakes the man off and rushes after the blue-coated man, Miss Goldstein in hot pursuit. Credence exchanges a look with Mr. Shaw, and with one accord they both take off at a dead run after the police. Credence won’t miss this for the world!

It’s a chase for the ages indeed. Everyone following everyone else, no one gaining ground. Not until the blue-coated man Apparates directly in front of the charging beast, opens the suitcase, and—

—the beast simply _vanishes_ inside.

“Thought we were dead,” the man the beast was chasing says faintly, sprawled on the ground.

“I told you not to worry,” the blue-coated man says as he slams the suitcase shut.

And then Tina seizes him from behind and snaps, “You’re under arrest!”

The hubbub rises again as the man on the ground raises a protest and Mr. Shaw starts yelling, too, and suddenly it’s all chaos. Credence stands back, scrupulously avoiding getting involved, and that is the _only_ reason he hears someone shout a spell behind him and has the time to duck. A flash of red light hurtles by overhead as Credence dives out of the way.

He finds himself caught by Mr. Graves, who’s glaring at the empty spot where someone must have Apparated away. “Stay with me, would you?” he asks Credence. He rubs his temples. “This is shaping up to be one hell of a day.”

Oh, God preserve him, Credence thinks. Up close, Mr. Graves is even more handsome.

***

There are twenty people locked in the cells at headquarters by the time that all’s said and done, most of the standard sort—rioters, people who took advantage of the chaos to commit petty theft, and so on. These people can be sent to other station houses for holding, but there’s a very specific group which Graves is already calling “The Troublemakers” in his head.

Mrs. Seraphina Picquery, the rabble-rousing demagogue from Louisiana who refuses to work with any suffragist or temperance organization which refuses to include issues of race in their rhetoric. Mrs. Ya Zhou, regular contributor to newspaper opinion columns and periodicals as a vocal opponent of the Exclusion Act. Jacob Kowalski, confused accessory to the release of dozens of deadly magical creatures in New York City. New Scamander, a so-called “magizoologist” who appears to have run off with a circus in a suitcase and will not explain how to access the extradimensional space in the case. And, of course, Langdon Shaw, who has already obstructed justice twice today and won’t rest until he does it a third.

Oh, and he has a man sitting at his desk who’s been the target of a murder _twice_ in one day.

No one is leaving the building until Graves can sort this out.

“You can’t hold us here,” Mrs. Zhou says.

“It’s for your protection,” Graves says wearily. “I’d rather avoid another riot.”

There are mutinous sounds, but he really doesn’t care.

Graves turns to Tina. “I need to reach out to some contacts and discuss what’s happened to Mr. Barebone,” he says. “We need a patrolman to stay here—”

“Sir,” Tina says, standing at attention, “I can stay overnight.”

“I won’t ask you to do that,” Graves protests.

“I can,” she insists fiercely.

Graves glances at the calendar. It is a Tuesday, after all; Tina’s free tonight. He’s always been careful to make sure that he cuts her loose early Fridays so she can get home on time for Sabbath observances. There’s no production about it—who knows what would be said if Tina’s religion were widely known—but Graves has a certain fellow feeling for people presenting a disingenuous front to the world. If his entire character were known, he’d suffer worse than the loss of his job. “All right,” he says. He sighs and rubs his temples. “Just…make sure that they stay in the cells. This is for everyone’s protection.”

“You can’t take the case,” Scamander protests.

“Mr. Scamander, unless you want me to actually charge you with a crime, you’ll stop talking right now,” Graves warns. He looks at Tina and sighs. “I’ll be back early tomorrow. With a better idea of where to go from here.”

He turns to the desk where Barebone is waiting and finds the young man already on his feet. He truly has atrocious posture, and the nervous attitude he carries is going to get him eaten alive in New York. But still, he’d joined in the Central Park chase. There’s steel in him somewhere.

“I’ll follow you, sir,” Barebone says earnestly.

“Come on, then,” Graves says, attempting brusqueness and able for some reason only to smile helplessly. “We’ll take the Floo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wong Chin Foo was an activist for Chinese rights in the United States](https://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/13/magazine/who-made-that-ice-pack.html%0A>The%20history%20of%20the%20ice%20pack</a>,%20because%20it's...cool.%0A%0AAs%20it%20were.%0A%20%0AAS%20FOR%20THE%20LADIES:%20ANYONE%20WHO%20WANTS%20TO%20TELL%20ME%20THAT%20WOMEN%20OF%20COLOR%20COULDN%E2%80%99T%20BE%20ACTIVE%20IN%20THE%201880S%20CAN%20MEET%20ME%20TO%20DUEL,%20WE%E2%80%99LL%20GO%20TO%20NEW%20JERSEY%20BECAUSE%20EVERYTHING%20IS%20LEGAL%20IN%20NEW%20JERSEY.%0A%0AAnyway,%20the%20idea%20of%20a%20black%20woman%20and%20a%20Chinese%20woman%20teaming%20up%20for%20social%20justice%20isn%E2%80%99t%20remotely%20impossible.%20%0A%0AIn%20terms%20of%20Chinese-Americans%20doing%20cool%20things%20at%20the%20time,%20<a%20href=). He published the essay “Why Am I A Heathen?”, a polemic that eviscerated American Christians of the time. By 1883, after the passage of the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, he was publishing “The Chinese American”, a newspaper in New York. He engaged in verbal duels with critics of immigration, founded a Chinese political association in New York in 1884, and testified before Congress after the renewal of the Exclusion act. 
> 
> As for black ladies? [Ida B. Wells (later Wells-Barnett) threw down her lawsuit against a Memphis train car company after they threw her off a train when she refused to move to the back of a train car](http://www.blackpast.org/aah/barnett-ida-wells-1862-1931). (Does this sound familiar?) In her initial suit she WON the case, though it was later appealed and up the line overturned. She campaigned for intersectional suffrage and fought white suffragettes who ignored racism in their movements and downplayed lynchings. She wrote exposes for newspapers and magazines, traveled as an international speaker, and is listed as a founder for the National Association of Colored Women’s Club as well as potentially having assisted in the founding of the NAACP. 
> 
> And if THAT isn’t enough? [Let’s not forget the graduates of the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania in 1885: Anandibai Joshi, Keiko Okami, and Sabat Islambouli](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/04/08/19th-century-women-medical-school_n_5093603.html). These three would eventually take their places among the first licensed female doctors in India, Japan and Syria. Although Islambouli’s story becomes cloudy after her return to Syria, Joshi passed away from tuberculosis at 21 years old before beginning her practive, and Okami resigned due to unfair treatment at the Tokyo hospital where she worked, all three women were revolutionary in terms of the steps they took to become educated and strive for a better world. 
> 
> Basically, what I’m saying is there: there’s legitimately no excuse for cutting people of color, particularly _women_ of color, out of our histories and historical fictions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning everybody!!! ^.^
> 
> Please note that there is some internalized period-typical homophobia in this chapter (and wow, I should add that to the tags, I'll do so immediately). Graves and Credence are not in a position where they can be at all public. It's not Done, really. Not in this period.

Mr. Graves’ house is about as austere as Credence might have expected. It’s well-appointed, of course, because he is a man of means. But it certainly isn’t overstated or even particularly elegant. Credence can feel nearly comfortable here.

He’s left to “make himself at home” while Mr. Graves sends off some letters and makes telephone calls. He has a telephone! That’s something Credence didn’t expect; it’s a recent invention, something that’s promised to change the entire world. There’s no magic in the thing at all, which still shocks everybody. Credence has only seen them at a distance and only ever in official buildings, never in a private home like this. There was one in the factory manager’s office, but Credence had never even been close enough to really look.

“Well, that’s enough of that for the evening,” Mr. Graves says, coming into the sitting room where Credence perches awkwardly on the sofa. He sits down in the chair across from Credence and shakes his head. “Hell of a day.”

“That’s the best way to put it, sir,” Credence says softly.

“Just Graves is fine.”

Credence ducks his head and nods. The man’s gaze is…arresting. As it were. “Thank you for giving me space here while things are sorted out,” he says.

“No trouble,” Graves says. “Until we find out who’s trying to shoot you, I’d rather you stay with me at all times.”

All times. _All times_ , with a man who he can’t take his eyes off. Credence is doomed! “Of course,” he says.

Graves leans back in his chair. There are deep lines of weariness around his eyes, but he doesn’t sound tired when he speaks. “Tell me about yourself, Barebone. What kind of a man acquires a fortune like that overnight?”

“Not a man like me,” Credence says with a smile. He settles back a little, comforted by Graves’ relaxed pose. “I was a factory worker. Jigger Potions, in St. Louis.”

“Potion factory work?” Graves looks a little alarmed. “I’ve heard horror stories.”

“They’re probably true,” Credence says with a shrug. “I worked in the mortar and pestle rooms when I was very small. Crushing all sorts of things, snake fangs and Shrivelfigs and arsenic and so on. They wanted children to clean the mortars and pestles, but it was chancy work. You know how big those things are, can take your arm off if you’re not careful.”

By this point Graves looks more angry than worried. “They shouldn’t let children work in there.”

“It was that or the streets,” Credence says dryly. All of that time in the factories has long since made him unbothered. “At least I was eating. And now…well, Mr. Grindelwald found me, looking for the heir to the Barebone family fortune, and apparently I have more money than any man needs.”

Graves leans forward a bit. “How did he find you to begin with?”

Credence shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I must be who he was looking for. I mean, the goblins confirmed it, and they wouldn’t have let me have the money if they didn’t believe it. He told me he was a friend of the family.”

“Who was your family?”

For a moment, Credence pauses. “I don’t remember them, of course,” he says. He’s not sure what it is about Graves that makes him feel secure, as if the man can be trusted, but he’s willing to follow his instincts. “My grandfather, Mark Faris, he patented a magical apparatus to separate metals from the common rock they’re found in. I wouldn’t begin to know how it works, but apparently the uses for it were so wide that other industries started buying up the machines.”

“Of course,” Graves says dryly. “The captains of industry are never short of invention. Go on.”

Telling this story sounds like he’s telling a fairy tale. “Mr. Grindelwald told me that my mother was cut out of the will because of some feud and that she disappeared with me when I was a baby. My grandfather had a change of heart, in his old age, and tried to find her, but he couldn’t. So he put me in the will, and the money’s just been waiting for me all this time.”

Graves shakes his head in visible astonishment. “Ought to make a novel of that,” he says. “You’d make your own fortune.”

“Maybe someday,” Credence says. He smiles. “For now, though, I think I’ll just see what the world really has to offer.”

***

The return to the headquarters building on Mulberry Street the next morning is an interesting trip. Graves feels a little like he’s in some kind of strange dream. A porter brought Barebone’s small luggage over from the hotel, and the young man looks severely uncomfortable in his stiff new clothes. They look too…refined. Still, Barebone stands up straight and sports a pleasant smile as they come back to headquarters. He’s handsome this morning.

He’s still thinking about that, about the young man’s brilliant smile, as he opens the door. And then all thought stops because there is a woman _sitting on his desk_.

Dressed in a smart blue dress that’s just a bit out of style, with a hat perched on prettily arranged blonde curls, she smiles and stands up. “Morning, Mr. Graves,” she says, offering a hand. Quite forward—but Graves rather likes the look of this woman.

He shakes her hand politely. “Good morning, Miss—?”

“Goldstein,” she says. “Queenie Goldstein, Tina’s sister.”

They do look alike, is Graves’ first thought, something about the keen and steady gaze. His second is one of confusion, but he never gets the chance to ask his question. The young lady cuts him off:

“Well, I’m here to bring everyone breakfast,” Miss Goldstein says, lifting a basket off the desk. “I was just down in the lockup with them, but Tina said you’d be coming along shortly so I waited for you to make sure you had something this morning.”

It takes a moment to process what happened. She’d preempted his thought with uncanny accuracy, and though she could have just been lucky…Graves doubts it. Queenie Goldstein is a _Legilimens?_

She gives him a sharp look. “Before you ask, I ain’t planning on joining the police,” she says.

Graves flings up all his mental shields. He’s no mean Occlumens and she cannot be allowed in his head. That’s if she didn’t hear anything about what he’s thought of Barebone, or—

“Don’t worry,” Miss Goldstein says, sharpness fading into a faint sadness. “I won’t tell anyone what you’re thinking, Mr. Graves.”

Graves studies her for a moment. “You heard.” Barebone gives him a look, and then looks at Miss Goldstein, but no explanation will be forthcoming.

“I heard,” she says. She opens the top of the basket. “And your secrets are safe with me. Now come on, there’s plenty of gingerbread left.”

It really is good, Graves thinks ruefully as he heads down to lockup. He leaves Barebone with Miss Goldstein in his office as they merrily chat; Barebone has an uncanny kind of charisma that seems to naturally attract people. Unusual, in a factory boy. Still, Graves is rather happy to be enchanted. It’s been a long time since he met someone he actually _liked_.

Downstairs, everyone has clearly had breakfast, and Graves feels a headache coming on when he realizes that overnight they’ve all become friendly with each other.

“—no, no, let him tell it,” Shaw is saying.

Mrs. Picquery shakes her head, looking around from the cell where the two ladies are held. “I hope this is good,” she says severely, a twinkle in her eyes.

Kowalski smiles. “Well, I know a lot of Methodists, working at the cannery,” he says. “And one of them told me about a man in his congregation who went up to the preacher one day and said, ‘That was an excellent sermon, but not a bit original.’ Well, the preacher was taken aback and asked how the man knew that. The man told the preacher that he had a book at home that had every word the preacher used, and that he’d bring it next Sunday. Well, he walks into church that morning and goes straight up the preacher and hands him—a dictionary.”

“Oh, boo!” Scamander says, even as all the others laugh.

Graves clears his throat. “Good to see you all so pleased with yourselves,” he says dryly, as they all turn to look at him. He hefts the suitcase up onto the desk with a thump. “I believe it’s time to talk about this suitcase, Mr. Scamander.”

***

Credence feels like he ought to be nervous, left alone with a lady in Graves’ office, but he finds himself quite at ease. She chats away for a while, making him feel quite at home as she tells him about her job as a secretary for a small office that sells and repairs broomsticks. Miss Goldstein is amiable, encouraging him to take more gingerbread when he hesitates, and asking about him, what he thinks of New York, all that.

“I like it,” Credence ventures, holding a piece of gingerbread nervously. “It’s very…big.”

“It is!” she agrees gaily. “The greatest city in the world!”

“So I’ve heard,” Credence says.

Miss Goldstein looks keenly at him and Credence feels an itch at the back of his head. “You don’t like it here because of men like your Mr. Grindelwald, do you?”

He hasn’t mentioned Grindelwald once in this conversation. “I—well—how did you—”

“Aw, sorry,” Miss Goldstein says. “I’m a Legilimens, can’t really help it.”

“Legilimens?”

She looks startled for a moment. “Ain’t ever heard of people like me? Oh, well, working in that factory, I understand. I just hear all sorts of things floating through people’s heads.”

Credence gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. Did she hear…did she hear what he was thinking about Graves? About how he looked, upright and handsome and…

“I heard,” Miss Goldstein says.

The world tilts. Credence grips the edge of the desk, light-headed. “Please—oh, Miss Goldstein, don’t _say_ anything, I just admire him—”

Her hands cover his, small and soft. Credence meets her eyes and tries to breathe. “When you’ve heard all the things I’ve heard,” Miss Goldstein says, “you get over things like that real quick. Your secrets are safe with me. I promise.”

It takes a moment for Credence to recover. Finally, he manages to breathe. “You asked…”

“About Grindelwald,” Miss Goldstein says. She smiles. “Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s a little odd,” Credence says. He fidgets. “Keeps…asking me what I’ll do with my money, encouraging me to invest in business ventures I don’t understand or donate to societies…”

“You don’t listen to a word he says,” Miss Goldstein says, shaking her head. “It’s your money, Mr. Barebone. Better see a banker about it, or…oh, you are just the sweetest. Donating it all to charity?”

He feels himself blush. “There are plenty of people who need that money much more than I do.”

Miss Goldstein seems about to speak, but then she looks up at the door. “Mr. Graves!” she says, before the door even opens.

The door indeed opens to reveal the superintendent. There’s a crease on his brow and he already looks tired. “Come along, Mr. Barebone, Miss Goldstein,” Graves says, with a long-suffering sigh. “It looks like we’re going hunting for creatures.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the inventor Antonio Meucci gets credit for inventing the phone in 1849, and Charles Bourseul made another in 1854, it's Alexander Graham Bell who won the the first U.S. patent in1876. The first telephone line was constructed, the first switchboard was created, and the first telephone exchange was in operation by 1878. By 1881, almost 49,000 telephones were in use. In 1880, a merger created the American Bell Telephone Company, and in 1885 (the year of this fic) the American Telegraph and Telephone Company (AT&T) was formed. It's reasonable to assume that Credence might, at his economic level, never have personally used one.
> 
> Unfortunately, Credence’s factory experience would have been typical even in our world. Children were used in factories and did suffer the kinds of injuries on display here. In 1885, many of the incidents that would eventually incite change (such as the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire) had yet to happen. This kind of thing was normal.
> 
> The joke comes from the Daily Phoenix, April 4, 1872.
> 
> Jacob's comment about Methodist is a shout-out to the practice of on-the-ground ministry which the Methodists pioneered. Factory workers were widely unlikely to attend church, because after the nightmarishly long and difficult days who wants to spend their only day off sitting in church? Though some did, many others preferred to go out and get drunk. The Methodists responded to this by going into communities to help educate children and families, provide assistance, and perform ministry. They were early Temperance leaders, and their methods were pretty damn good.
> 
> Fun fact: Newt would likely be the only one using “boo”, because the practice of saying it at a theater or political event was little known in America before the turn of the century. In Britain, however, it was a common practice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule? What posting schedule? 
> 
> Gah.

~~~~

Graves isn’t even sure what to make of his day anymore. Or his life, really. Overnight, his regimented and regular routine has turned into something completely foreign.

The sensitive nature of this issue—that is, that all of these creatures are very touchy and can likely only be wrangled by their handler—means that Graves can’t reasonably send out his patrolmen, no matter how competent, to handle it. He’ll have to go himself, along with Scamander.

He can’t, however, leave Barebone behind, because as dangerous as these creatures are, at least Graves has his eye on the young man. Shaw point-blank refuses not to be left behind, scowling ferociously and threatening to publish horrible things if Graves doesn’t let him come. Therefore, Graves takes Tina along, because he _needs_ another officer of the law to wrangle Shaw.

Scamander insists that Kowalski come along as his “assistant” and, since Graves has no way to prove he’s not and the man is part of it anyway, along comes the baker. Tina’s sister follows along, too, insisting that surely a Legilimens can be of use. (Graves actually can’t dispute that one.)

And then as for the rabble-rousing suffragists, neither Mrs. Picquery nor Mrs. Zhou are at all interested in being left behind. Tina and Mrs. Picquery have hit it off, and besides, when Graves questions the wisdom of bringing along a woman who isn’t on the police force, Mrs. Picquery looks him in the eye and tells him that he can duel her and see her competence if he likes.

“One can’t be a suffragist these days without good skill in the art of offensive magic,” Mrs. Zhou says with a brilliant smile. Where her comrade goes, she goes. Graves bows to the inevitable, and so their party of nine is rounded out.

“I’ve accounted for everything in the case but these,” Scamander explains as they stand around Graves’ desk. “Lucky we’ve got the Erumpet. There’s a Billywig missing, and Dougal—the Demiguise—and we got the Murtlap back, so no harm done there.”

“No harm done!” Kowalski points at his neck. “It bit me!”

“Well, you’re alive,” Scamander rejoins, and goes on as if no one else spoke. “The Niffler is still out, little bugger, and I’m missing all the Cornish Pixies. There are several Fire Crabs missing. I believe that we’re missing an Occamy…and…the Nundu…”

Graves is fairly sure he’s about to die. A circus doesn’t begin to describe this disaster! “Tell me they’re small.”

“Most small,” Scamander says. “Occamies are choranaptyxic, they change shape to fit the available space. It might be in a teapot. Then again, it might appear in the middle of City Hall.”

Graves takes a deep breath. He forces images of a monstrosity erupting out of nowhere in the middle of City Hall out of his head. “And the others?”

“Well, the Nundu…it’s rather…large,” Scamander admits. “And…I think we’d better find it first.”

Something is not right here, but there’s really nothing Graves can do about it. “Well, Mr. Scamander,” Graves says, “you’re the expert. Lead on.”

***

Credence sticks close by Graves’ side as they exit the police headquarters. Though his expression is put-upon, he smiles whenever he happens to catch Credence’s eye, and his step is firm and energetic. Though they’ve barely spoken so far in this sudden adventure, Credence is starting to believe he’s blushing whenever Graves smiles. This is untenable, but Credence has no idea what to do about it.

They must make quite the unusual sight. Mr. Scamander takes the lead, talking animatedly to Graves and explaining where each beast might be found. Behind Credence, Miss Tina—as she insisted he call her, simply for ease of address—walks beside Mr. Shaw, and their conversation is stilted and awkward indeed. Miss Queenie and Mr. Kowalski are far friendlier, and though their conversation is polite, their laughter and obvious friendliness certainly puts the rest of the party to shame. And bringing up the rear, Mrs. Picquery and Mrs. Zhou, engaged in their own quiet conversation. Credence is a little shy of them both, but Mrs. Zhou in particular has a friendly smile and Mrs. Picquery is certainly a woman of spirit who Credence already admires.

“The Nundu will have headed for open space,” Mr. Scamander informs them as he walks quickly ahead down the street. “The parts of Africa where they live are quite sparsely populated.”

“Even Central Park wouldn’t work for that,” Graves muses.

“The sand banks out at Port Washington,” Mr. Shaw volunteers. “Open space, lots of room to run, and not many people.”

Graves nods, looking back at the reporter. “It’s a start,” he says. “Very well.”

“With this many people we’ll have to take an omnibus, sir,” Miss Tina ventures.

Credence shakes his head, stunned. “An omnibus…well, I never.”

“You will now,” Graves says, and familiarly claps Credence on the shoulder.

So _that’s_ what it’s like to have one’s stomach turn a somersault.

Miss Queenie laughs suddenly and Credence winces. But, as she promised, she doesn’t say a word, and his secret is preserved. He manages to keep a straight face as they find an omnibus driver willing to carry nine all the way to Brooklyn and not ask questions.

“Lucky thing we’re allowed to ride,” Mrs. Picquery says under her breath, climbing up with the assistance of Mr. Kowalski.

“Because of people like you, Mrs. Picquery,” Mr. Shaw says. Credence looks at him, startled, wondering if the man is making fun of her. It wouldn’t be a surprise, from a man so wealthy, but Mr. Shaw has nothing but admiration in his face. “Dynamic people like you—that’s who’ll fix all this.”

Credence glances around the omnibus as it jolts into motion and shakes his head. Dynamic is certainly one word that might describe this crowd. He ought to feel like a misfit, among them.

Instead, he feels strangely like he’s come home.

***

Port Washington—Cow Neck, as it’s more colloquially called—is a much more rural sort of place than Manhattan. Houses are smaller, clapboard, and there are far more trees. It’s a pleasant change although the time of year isn’t doing anyone any favors with the weather. The biggest industry is clam-digging, and out on the bay are many, many clam shacks. The waters of the bay are relatively calm, and the shore is very wide.

There will be local police forces out here, of course, but Graves is not going to put them in harm’s way when this is his problem that got loose from his jurisdiction. He’ll handle the Nundu, thank you—or, well, he and Scamander will handle the Nundu. With seven other people following behind.

Usually an omnibus like this costs five cents for a short jaunt in Manhattan—after some quick calculation, the driver names a price so exorbitant that even Shaw and Graves, who each live respectable lives on an allowance and a superintendent’s salary, can’t imagine affording it. But after a moment Credence shakes himself, reaches into his pocket, and smartly counts out the amount needed and then some. “Keep the change,” he says with a dazzling smile, “and would you mind waiting for us? We’ll be back by late afternoon.”

The driver does not mind, and they set out toward the empty stretches of land with light hearts. It almost seems like a vacation, though Graves keeps in mind the beast lurking in wait. The roads are unpaved and rough; as when they were walking in Manhattan, arms are offered to ladies. Only Miss Goldstein and Mrs. Zhou accept. Tina is busy chatting up a storm with Scamander and Mrs. Picquery is deeply involved in discussion with Shaw. These latter two carry their wands as the men do, and Graves can’t help a smile. He does like forward-thinking women.

Because Miss Queenie and Kowalski are still deeply involved in their own conversation, this leaves Mrs. Zhou walking with Barebone, and of course Graves is not going to leave the young man alone. It’s the first time he’s talked with the suffragist for any length, though their paths have of course crossed. “Why come along with us on something like this?” he asks.

She smiles. “I always like adventures. And this seems to be a great one. Besides, Seraphina is interested in talking to Mr. Shaw, and where she goes I go.”

“I must say that it’s irregular for unmarried women like yourselves to go running around with men like us,” Graves says.

“Oh, etiquette has its place.” Mrs. Zhou shrugs. “But sometimes rules must be broken, and Seraphina and I are scandals anyway. We make our choices, Mr. Graves, and she and I will sacrifice all we have in the name of raising our voices for justice.”

***

Credence _likes_ these people. He’s known reformers, of course, working a factory, but he’s never met anyone quite like Mrs. Zhou before. Come to think of it he’s never met anyone from China before, or at least someone Chinese. As she and Graves talk, Credence hears about marches for voting rights, about how this marvelous woman has met with Senators and governors to demand that laws be passed to protect Chinese immigrants, about things he never imagined.

And Graves _listens_ and more intriguingly he _agrees_. Credence is alarmed and surprised by this man, who one might expect to dislike women like those in this party. Instead, Miss Tina is on his police force—and he’d brought her along rather than a ranking patrolman! He’d been concerned when Credence told him of the potion factory, rather than dismissive. Now here he is making friendly conversation with a Chinese suffragist. And Graves is a _policeman._ What sort of policeman does these things? None that Credence have ever known acted like this.

He’s developing a hellishly untoward fondness toward a man he’s known for a mere day and a half. Is he sick? Is something wrong with him? Credence has never liked anyone quite this much—has never seen someone whose mere glance turns his heart inside-out with delight.

“There, up ahead,” Mr. Scamander says, breaking Credence from his thoughts. “That big open stretch—Nundu prefer places like that. Go quietly!”

The whole party falls silent, and on the general principle of Mr. Scamander’s sudden nerves they all draw their wands. They approach the field slowly, watching for movement, and it’s Mr. Kowalski who spots it first. “There!” he hisses, pointing.

In the trees is a slow, prowling shape, very large. It emerges from the trees, proud and magnificent. Credence’s heart nearly stops. It’s like a lion, or a jaguar, perhaps, animals he’s only ever seen in illustrations of Noah’s Ark. But it’s massive—like two large omnibuses or more. It surveys its domain with glorious unconcern, beautiful black pelt shimmering in the sun.

“Scamander,” Graves says in a low voice, “is there anything we should know?”

“…the Nundu has only ever been subdued by a hundred wizards working together,” Mr. Scamander says apologetically. “We, ah, we’ll have our work cut out for us.”

“I suddenly,” Mrs. Zhou says under her breath as she draws her wand, “really regret this.”

Credence draws his, too, clutching it tightly. “How…how are we going to catch it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the use of “Mrs.” for Seraphina and Ya: there’s a long weird history here, but basically “Mrs.” didn’t definitely indicate a married woman until around the turn of the century. Queenie would have gone by “Miss” because she’s relatively socially ambitious, and would have wanted to signal her position as a stenographer, not a housecleaner or someone engaged in similar labor. 
> 
> You can look up Elizabeth Jennings Graham, the woman who put forth the case that began the process of desegregation of NYC transit. 
> 
> Check out historic Cow Neck: www.cowneck.org
> 
> So for the first time, I present an actual snapshot of my research process. For this chapter, I had to get the crew from the police station all the way to the sand banks...and I had no idea how.
> 
> 1\. Where was the police headquarters in 1885? It changed locations twice and I had to hunt up where the original location was. Sources: a book published in 1885 about police in NYC, the NYC police website, and Wikipedia.
> 
> 2\. Could you take a streetcar all the way to the destination? Dear god no! I had to look at the history of streetcars in NYC, the fact that streetcars didn't cross the Brooklyn Bridge until 1898, and so on. Sources: streetcar maps of NYC from...forever until forever, the NYC streetcar museum site, and comparisons of maps from 1880 and now. 
> 
> 3\. Well, you can't take a street car, how about an omnibus? Turns out that an omnibus company was founded in NYC in 1885, so yay! That one was short, and required just a look at a database of companies founded in NYC by year. However, that company? Did not send ’buses to Brooklyn. I gave up and just said they took an omnibus, because at some point something had to give.
> 
> 4\. I have characters of color. Could they ride? YES THEY COULD. Transit in NYC was fully desegregated by 1885, which is awesome! Sources: biographies of the people involved in desegregation, a couple summaries of legal cases.
> 
> 5\. Oh shit, NYC didn't become a greater metro area thing until well after 1885. NYC laws about desegregation and general transit research don't apply! How are they getting around Brooklyn? THAT I STILL DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I RAN OUT OF TIME TO RESEARCH. I ended up just going with Credence paying the exorbitant amount...not for their convenience, but for mine!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule? What posting schedule?
> 
> Double update because I am a Certified Disaster.

Graves might die an early death if this keeps up.

Scamander insists that, once the beast is in the suitcase, everything will be fine. The problem is, of course, getting it there. When Picquery sensibly points out that the great cat, now lying indolent in the middle of the field, will chase prey, the talk turns to who might act as bait.

Of course Scamander can’t, since he has to hold the suitcase and he’s the only one brave enough to get in front of the Nundu. Kowalski bows right out of being any kind of bait: “Did that once for the Erumpet,” he says, “ain’t going to do it again.” Mrs. Zhou and Miss Goldstein both decline due to a lack of natural athleticism. Graves himself tells Shaw not to bother: the man is too important and his father would sue the city if he got killed. And he also knocks Tina and Picquery from the running: “I don’t doubt your bravery,” he says, “but skirts aren’t precisely good for fleeing from a beast like that.”

Which leaves Graves to do it, really, except that he has a problem. The young man he’s trying to save from being murdered makes an alarming amount of sense in his objections. “You’re the police superintendent,” Barebone says. “It’d be as bad as Mr. Shaw getting killed, having you get eaten by the Nundu. So I’ll do it. I’m very fast.”

“Let the record show that I’m against all of this,” Graves says, feeling a little grim.

“As the resident secretary,” Miss Goldstein says, pulling a notebook from her reticule, “I’ll make sure it does, Mr. Graves.”

Shaw eyes the little book. “We should compare notes later.”

“That is _later_ ,” Scamander says. He sighs. “I’ll get round the front and prepare the case. Credence, when I give the signal, you get out in front of it and run toward me. The rest of you—scare it from behind, drive it on with explosions and such. You’re clever, I know you can sort it out.”

Waiting for the signal is agonizing. Graves is on tenterhooks. The young man could die. Hell, any of his charges could die! Or he could die an early death from strain and premature old age.

When Newt’s signal comes, Graves bursts into motion. “Bombarda!” he shouts, and a jet of light erupts from his wand. The Nundu roars and leaps away, a blur of gleaming black between the trees. Its startlement quickly changes, though, as it spots Credence waiting fifty feet ahead.

“Run, Credence!” Jacob yells. Graves would echo the shout, but his throat is closed with mild panic. Credence is standing there, waiting—

—waiting—

—and as the Nundu closes twenty feet he spins and breaks into a flat-out run.

It’s clear that Credence has experience with this, fast as a sprinter, running as his life depends on it. He’s just barely keeping his ground ahead of the Nundu. The rest follow, the ladies tripping over skirts and men tripping over weeds. When they think of it they cast noisy spells, thunderclaps and sirens, to keep the Nundu barreling onward.

But Credence is losing ground. Every stride the Nundu makes is long enough to equal a dozen of his at least, and it’s frightened and hungry besides. Graves can see just how this will go—can practically see the teeth closing around Credence and shaking him like a rag doll.

It’s just a chorus of cries begging Credence to hurry, run, get ahead of the beast as he approaches Scamander’s position. He springs up from the grass, the case open, and shouts, “Hurry!”

The Nundu roars thunderously and its paw bats at Credence. He stumbles and cries out, though continues running, those teeth barely behind him. Graves stops breathing for a moment.

And then Credence, wonderful, clever young man, whirls in place and Apparates forty feet forward right past Scamander. The magizoologist holds his ground against the oncoming beast, which can’t stop itself fast enough. It looks as if he’s going to be run over—

The Nundu hits the case and dwindles in size faster and faster and faster until it simply vanishes inside.

 

***

 

They dine in a small restaurant in Port Washington, and Credence has the good sense not to try to pay. Though he’s sure no one will object to his paying for the omnibus home, these are generally a proud group. Credence understands such pride quite well.

He’s between Graves on his left hand and Mrs. Zhou on his right. She has Mrs. Picquery at her right, chatting animatedly with Shaw, while Miss Tina sits by Shaw watching Mr. Scamander with oddly wide eyes. Mr. Scamander explains all sorts of things to Mr. Kowalski—Credence catches only fragments of the conversation—while Miss Queenie chats with Mr. Graves. For all that their party is nine, it’s a cozy group. Even Graves has warmed up considerably after this afternoon’s adventure.

“—with Sarah Garnet,” Mrs. Zhou continues. “She wants to found an Equal Suffrage Club for negro ladies in Brooklyn, which Seraphina entirely endorses and I think is a wonderful idea. If I could only get Chinese women to answer a similar call…”

“Are they ignoring you?” Credence asks.

“It’s the trouble of finding them. There aren’t many women from my country here,” she says dryly, with a self-deprecating shrug. “It’s mostly men, and…well, I could talk for hours on the subject of the state of women in general. Come to think of it, I _have_ been talking for hours on that…”

She laughs, and Credence does too.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Graves turn. Credence turns to look back at the man, who’s studying him keenly. “That was what I’d call courage, earlier,” Graves says. “And quick thinking with the Apparation.”

Oh, no. He’s blushing again. “Thank you,” Credence says. “It wasn’t much trouble.”

Graves gives him a flat look. “You could have been eaten,” he says.

“I wasn’t, though,” Credence says.

Miss Queenie smiles. “No, you weren’t,” she says. “Ain’t this the wildest day?”

“Come to think of that—” Shaw turns away from Miss Tina and leans forward a bit, looking at Queenie. “Miss Goldstein! I think you promised me your notes!”

“And what are you going to do with those?” Miss Tina demands. “Publish them?”

Shaw looks consternated. “I don’t entirely know,” he says, “but I feel like this is all quite important, more than what my father wants me writing…”

“It ain’t much,” Mr. Kowalski says with a shrug. “Just a bunch of freaks out chasing a circus!”

“I’ve been around plenty of circus freaks,” Mr. Scamander says with great certainty. “They’re the best sorts I’ve ever met, and we ought to be proud to be able to call ourselves oddities like them.”

Credence feels like he’s going to smile himself silly if he’s not careful. “Even if people have been trying to kill me, and we’re out hunting cats the size of houses,” he says, “I’m very glad that my first days in New York City have been with you.”

He catches Graves giving him a funny look which blossoms into a smile as there’s a general cheer of agreement, and feels warm right down to his bones. Credence ducks his head a little and, suddenly feeling shy, bites his lip. He isn’t quite sure what to do with all of this, but he does know at least that he’s happy. For what seems the first time ever, Credence Barebone is _happy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things I had to deal with in terms of period accuracy, language surrounding race might have been the worst. I considered what to do with it for absolute *weeks* before finally making a concrete decision that I would use the terms here that people would have used *for themselves* at the time. In 1885, although we cringe at it today, ‘negro’ was the politically correct term and the one that you find in documents written by black people in the period (and even into the mid-1900s). I read an awful lot of opinion pieces and a lot of discourse by black people, and in some ways that was even more confusing, since opinions, as usual, differ. In the end, I made the call that if I can call homosexuality a “character flaw,” have main characters who think that their friends are competent “despite being a woman,” and have severely classist attitudes regarding how Credence is remarkable “for a factory boy,” then I need to be frank about the issue of race as well. 
> 
> Sarah J. Garnet was a real historical figure. She was the first black female principal in the NYC public school system, and she was the older sister of Susan Smith McKinney Steward, who was the first black woman in New York state to graduate with a medical doctorate (M.D.). Her second husband was an abolitionist who served as the US ambassador to Liberia. She occupied the position of principal at two separate schools until her retirement in 1900—which was the year that New York repealed a law permitting segregation in schools. Through her life, she was a supporter of woman suffrage and racial equality and civil rights. 
> 
> AND, as if all this isn’t enough, she was a businesswoman too, owning a successful seamstress shop in Brooklyn. In the late 1880s, she helped found the Equal Suffrage Club, a club for black women based in Brooklyn. ON TOP OF THAT, she served as the superintendent of the Suffrage Department of the National Association of Colored Women. She supported the Niagara Movement, a predecessor to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (N.A.A.C.P.).
> 
> At age 88, in 1911, she rounded out her career by traveling with her sister to England to participate in the first Universal Races Congress. Mere weeks after her return, Sarah J. Garnet passed away. I’m left wondering just what else she would have done, if she only had more time.
> 
> A brief note on the subject of Chinese women that Ya complains about: in 1900, the US Census reported 7,028 Chinese males in residence, but only 142 Chinese women. There was QUITE a disparity.


	6. Chapter 6

Credence, bless the young man, pays the omnibus driver a hefty fare and extra tip in order to convince him to drive everyone home to their appointed places, or as close as they can go. That’s four separate stops, before the return to the police station, because Graves has decided that he’s not keeping everyone in the station overnight. Somehow, he trusts that no one here is in the business of running from the law—and they’re not under arrest anymore, besides.

Shaw must be deposited at his father’s house; the look he gives it is a grim one as he straightens his jacket. “See you all tomorrow,” he says bracingly, and strides up to the door. The driver won’t go to Harlem, where Mrs. Picquery and Mrs. Zhou rent rooms together, but he’ll go close enough that Graves is comfortable letting the ladies walk alone. Tina and her sister live in a boarding-house, strictly for women; as they’re home before curfew, there’s no trouble for either of them. And Kowalski offers to take Scamander and the suitcase home with him; because Graves doesn’t want to manage the animals, he lets this go for now.

It’s late in the afternoon by the time they return to headquarters. Good old familiar Mulberry Street. As much trouble as his job brings him, Graves does love it. There’s been no further trouble from any of Scamander’s creatures, and so Graves feels safe enough not to continue their chase. He finishes up the last few things that need doing in his office, while Credence sits by and idly reads the newspaper. And then it’s time to go.

“Not what your fortune should have you eating, but there’s a decent enough restaurant you won’t mind being seen in on the way home,” Graves says, collecting his things.

Credence flashes him a smile. “I don’t mind being seen anywhere,” he says. “I’m not…different than I was before, because of all this money. Honestly I just want it out of my hands as fast as possible.”

Graves exits his office and leads the way out of the building. On the sidewalk Credence catches up quickly and they stroll together in the vague direction of Graves’ residence. “It’s not quite Delmonico’s, I’m afraid,” Graves says, “but going out on a policeman’s salary, even when you’re superintendent…”

“No, I see,” Credence says. “I’ll go wherever you do.” There’s an odd color in his cheeks, but Graves dismisses it as overexcitement from the day. The young man must be overwrought.

He doesn’t remember a thing he eats. Credence is shy company, but riveting all the same. It takes a bit of prying to get the young man to open up about himself, his past, what he wants from his future, but when Credence starts to talk, he breaks like a dam. Graves hears more than he ever thought there was to know about life in a potions factory, and the more he hears the more horrified he is. Credence has known people who died of breathing too many nasty vapors, and has known children who got their hands lopped off trying to remove a jam from some great slicer. He talks of these things casually, but Graves is horrified. And stunned:

“It’s a miracle you survived,” he says, when Credence finally stops talking.

“I know,” Credence says. “I was just starting to think about taking my savings and running for California, seeing what I could make of myself, when Grindelwald arrived…”

Graves narrows his eyes. This is the other thing he has to be thinking about, aside from Scamander’s rampaging menagerie. “Yes, about him,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about him. What did he say to you, about your money? Did he go looking for you out of the goodness of his heart? Is he some distant relation of yours?”

Credence gazes at the wall, clearly thinking hard. “No, he’s not related. And as for the rest he never really told me,” he says. “Only ever said things about helping me find my place in society at last, about becoming what I was meant to be. I went along with it because who wouldn’t—and he had documents, evidence, I do think he thought I was stupid but I am far from that, Graves. I paid attention.”

“I’m sure you did,” Graves says. He scowls at his plate and the food that remains on it. “That still doesn’t tell either of us just why someone with absolutely no relation to you went looking for you to just hand you an entire fortune.”

 

***

 

At the house, Credence has a few minutes to think while Graves attends to the messages his pigeon has received during the day. They meet in the sitting room, after, and when Credence comes in he has to stop right there in the doorway to process what he’s seeing. Graves is jacket-less and vest-less, in his shirtsleeves and braces. Now Credence can clearly see his real physique, and be _stunned_ by it. He’s known plenty of strong men, working in factories, and clearly Graves is of a similar sort of strength, judging by his shoulders and arms. His back is to Credence, leaning over a table, and when he bends Credence just watches his braces pull tight over his shirt.

He’s in so much trouble.

Graves turns and sees Credence. “There you—are you blushing, Credence?”

“Sorry,” Credence says automatically, feeling his cheeks flame more. His eyes flick down over Graves’ broad chest and he has to _wrench_ his gaze away. “I just—”

“Ah, damn,” Graves says, looking down at himself. “I’m far too used to living alone. If this bothers you, I can—”

“No, no, don’t worry,” Credence says, hastily discarding his jacket. He does keep his vest, though, in a last desperate attempt to preserve himself. “Most men don’t bother with jackets and such in factories, I was only surprised.”

By the grace of God Himself, Graves buys the excuse.

They sit side by side and look at the limited evidence Graves has been able to gather. “Two attempts on your life, both times on the first day you arrived,” he says, “and by someone with a spell rather than a gun. A little archaic, but far easier to hide.”

“Why, though?” Credence asks. He bites his lip. “It must be about the money. I don’t see another explanation. But who’s so interested?”

“More importantly, who _knows_?” Graves asks. He looks off into the middle distance. “On the force, you, me, and Tina. Grindelwald. I know that the person who asked me to come escort you was John Kelly, which means he knows. Anyone at Gringotts knows, but I trust the goblins entirely. Their reputation depends on protection of client information. The papers haven’t broken any kind of story yet, though I’m sure it’s coming, and no one you know now was aware of you before meeting you.”

Credence pauses. “…are you implying that Grindelwald wants me dead?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Graves says, shaking his head. “I can’t see a motive.”

“He’s talked a lot about investing,” Credence says. “Financing political candidates, that sort of thing. And I just can’t believe he’d want me _dead_ an hour after we parted ways…”

“We should meet with Grindelwald,” Graves says decisively. “Find out what he’s been saying, and who he’s been saying it to. All it takes is one word to the wrong person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON THE SUBJECT OF BRACES. Visible suspenders were considered EXTREMELY risqué up through the 1930s in our world; ergo, Credence’s reaction when Graves pulls this little stunt. If you’re interested in braces/suspenders, the blog “Everything About Braces” has a LOT to say on the subject. I binge-read half of it and it’s a delight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a step away from Credence and Graves to look at events through some other eyes. Prepare for new perspectives!

“Are we going back out tomorrow hunting creatures?” Seraphina asks from the other side of the room. Ya watches her in the mirror as she unwraps her turban, to replace it with the satin wrap she wears at night to protect her hair.

“I think we should,” Ya says. She pulls the pins from the side sections of her bun and lets her hair fall over her shoulders, dropping the pins in their little tray on the dressing table. “It was an interesting diversion. And I think there are opportunities for us, really.”

“Connections,” Seraphina surmises. She sits on the edge of the bed and wraps her hair up without thinking—always a magical process, from where Ya sits. She can never manage that kind of thing.

Ya nods. She winces as she scratches her scalp just a little pulling free a particularly large pin, letting the long braid that forms most of the bun fall free. “And honestly…Sera, aren’t you tired of working day in and day out?”

“Exhausted,” Seraphina admits. She finishes tucking the satin headwrap in place and merely sits and watches. “Especially when it feels like we’re making no headway at all.”

They’re spinster suffragists in New York City, in a Boston marriage, a marriage that both of them take much more literally than the outside world perceives. Seraphina takes speaking engagements as frequently as she can, and Ya is paid decently for contributions to newspapers and periodicals. Between that and the money Ya has from her family—the origin of which she prefers to keep shrouded in mystery, given the circumstances of how it ended up in her hands—they have an acceptably comfortable life. Still, there are certain difficulties they face. Making headway in their aims is one of them.

“Then let’s take a break,” Ya says, shaking out the last of the braid. “Do something different, even if only for a few days. I’m sure, if nothing else, you’d be paid well for speaking about fantastical beasts!”

Seraphina laughs. She rises and takes the comb from Ya’s hands, beginning to gently comb out her hair, tangled from the style and from the exertions of the day. “You really think that they’d pay to see me speak on _that_?”

“For the novelty, at least in the beginning,” Ya says. She tilts her head back a little so she can see Seraphina better and smiles. “And then they’ll come just to hear you speak!”

“Flatterer,” Seraphina says, looking pleased.

Ya relaxes in Seraphina’s capable hands for a few moments before speaking again. “I remember you saying a long time ago that people would listen to us on novelty alone,” she says. “And I think that they do, but they don’t… _hear_. We need a louder voice.”

Seraphina makes a face. “If I shout any louder my throat will burst.”

“No, I mean…we need our own newspaper, or something,” Ya says. She waves a hand vaguely, to indicate the future. This is a conversation they’ve had before, but one they can’t seem to stop having. “A way to print pamphlets, or something. To have our own voice.”

“Someday,” Seraphina says, dropping the comb on the dressing table. She kisses the top of Ya’s head. “I do believe if anyone can invent that, you can.”

 

***

 

The Shaw residence is as beautiful as ever; Langdon can’t help but compare its silence and austerity to the messy, paper-strewn and noisy office at the police headquarters. He sighs heavily, doffing his hat and leaving it carelessly. The automated servant will take care of it. Automata are quite new, and still alarming; theirs is dependable, however, and Langdon trusts that his hat will be cleared away in quick time. His father and brother will be in the study at this hour, and Langdon has to speak up before they leave for the dinner tonight.

Mayor Grace will be speaking, and there’s a very good chance that Henry will be in a position to reach for a real political appointment. Langdon likes Mayor Grace, at least well enough; he’s of the opinion that the man doesn’t always get at the heart of what really matters, but at least this second term is proving a promising one.

Henry and Mr. Shaw are indeed in the study, sitting at the desk, discussing what they’ll do tonight. Both look up when Langdon comes in, both a little less than approving. Langdon’s used to that kind of expression from his family, though, and he keeps his spirits up.

“Father, you’re going to want to hear this! I’ve got something huge!”

“Sit down and calm yourself, Langdon,” Mr. Shaw says.

Langdon obeys, reeling himself in. “I apologize for coming in so suddenly,” he says, sitting down next to Henry. As usual, his brother’s at his ease. He looks at home in this setting, as if in an office of leisure of his own. The Shaw fortune is in papers, but somehow Langdon suspects that Henry will be the one in the end to see the lion’s share of that fortune, especially in terms of fame. Henry makes the front page as a story. Langdon’s own writings barely rate the back pages.

“What’s all this about?” Henry asks. “Something to do with where you’ve been all day?”

“Yes,” Langdon says. He can’t stop himself from sounding excited, unfortunately. “There are creatures loose, all of the city—foreign creatures, magical beasts of all sizes—I saw one, you wouldn’t believe it. The reports practically flooded the police station until Superintendent Graves went out himself to apprehend the beasts! And I’ve been invited back to keep helping—reporting right there on the spot. The story of the year, right here in our hands!”

There’s a long silence, in which Langdon is keenly aware of the ticking clock.

Finally, Henry sighs. “This is as bad as that factory piece you wanted to run.”

“It’s a story,” Langdon says stubbornly. He’s going to stick this one out. Mr. Shaw is watching, but Langdon can’t read him at all. “This will be all over the city soon enough, and we have a chance!”

Henry shakes his head. “We don’t _need_ a chance, not with the dinner tonight. I won’t run this.”

Now Langdon’s seeing red. “It’s father’s paper, not yours, and I’m sick of every time I try to bring something—this isn’t even that important, not compared to votes for women or temperance or—”

“No, it’s not important. It’s a story about freaks and circuses. What respectable paper prints that kind of thing?”

“Henry—”

“That’s it, thank you.”

At Mr. Shaw’s words, Langdon and Henry both fall silent. Langdon steels himself for what he knows is coming, and looks his father full in the face. This is going to hurt.

“I’ve had more than enough of these games, Langdon,” Mr. Shaw says. “You’ve got no ambitions, and your talents are poured into useless, profit-less pursuits. I have no interest in this story. Our paper doesn’t need sensationalized headlines to get by. And every one of your headlines—”

“Not every one,” Langdon says, cutting in. “This one. The others? They _mean_ something. They’re important, Father!”

“Not to the readers of our paper,” Mr. Shaw says brutally. “And certainly not to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both ladies can be presumed to wear a typical Victorian nightgown: floor-length, warm, and adorned with lace and bows. Seraphina’s preference for wrapping her hair overnight makes sense in light of her day-wear turban; for Ya’s hair-care routine, let me tell you, I found THE COOLEST THING EVER: an academic paper on hair care in Market Street Chinatown, based on bottles found on historic sites. 
> 
> The eventual conclusion is that, although more mainstream products were used in hair care routines, they weren’t particularly integrated into general Chinese-American society. (Cruz, Stephanie. "“Life and Vigor to the Hair” Grooming Practices of the Market Street Chinatown Residents." (2007).) For Ya, given where she lives and given her professional life, I presumed that her style would be identical to the women with whom she regularly interacted. Hence the video: go watch it to see how to craft a Victorian hair style of the 1880s. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdpfoWRQEZ0
> 
> As a refresher, Mayor William R Grace ran against a Tammany Hall candidate and won. His reformist stances, aimed at attacking police scandals, city patronage, and organized vice, were the kind of thing that Langdon really would support.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long couple of weeks.
> 
> Three chapters to post, coming right up. 
> 
> *sighs and goes back to bed*

Upon return to the police headquarters the next morning, Graves is shocked to find Langdon Shaw asleep in a chair in the hall outside his office. There’s a valise sitting next to him and his hat is on his knee. He looks more than a little disheveled.

“What in the world…?” Credence asks. He touches Shaw’s shoulder and Graves stands back a bit, watching. The young reporter jerks awake, eyes wide, and then he seems to collect himself.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he says baldly.

“What _happened_ to you?” Graves asks, stunned.

“I threw myself out of my father’s house,” Shaw says. He rises to his feet, expression tight, words spilling out of him in a flood. “I’m sick to death of it all. I don’t know where I go from here, I’ve got pocket-change at best. I thought…I thought I’d ask you for a job, at least, I’m a fair hand at a typewriter…”

Graves holds up his hand. “Stop,” he says. “Come sit down in my office, and we’ll sort out breakfast for you. And then we’ll talk.”

It’s Tina, of course, who brings the coffee round, because somehow the rest of the station sees her as not good for much more than that. Graves, however, is happy to have her in his office: she can help him sort all this out. With Tina present, they finally manage to get sense out of Shaw, an explanation of just _what_ went on last night that ended with him in the police station begging for a job.

“Your father and brother, if you don’t mind me saying, are terrible people,” Credence says.

“They are,” Shaw says bitterly.

Graves exchanges a look with Tina. She nods at him. “Honestly, sorry as I am for your catastrophe,” Graves says, hoping this helps in the young man’s struggle against tears, “I need your help.”

“You _what_.”

 

***

 

Credence is shocked at the efficiency with which Graves assembles a team to investigate his would-be murderers. Langdon is aggressively in favor of helping, now that he’s got a purpose, and all at once he and Tina are best of friends. On the same side of things, they’re both quite fiery, and both of them are rather irked that Credence has almost been killed.

“We’ll look for Grindelwald’s connections in the city,” Langdon says, when they’ve gotten down to planning. “I know where to begin, too—Miss Goldstein, I doubt my father’s name will carry much weight anymore, so—”

“I can get you places with my badge, or at least hand it to you so _you_ can get us in if they won’t accept a police matron’s work,” Tina says. “Sir, are you sure it’s all right for us not to hunt creatures?”

“We’re collectively going to leave that to Scamander,” Graves says firmly. “He and Kowalski are thick as thieves, and I’m sure that when the suffragists and your sister arrive they’ll be prepared to go creature-hunting as well. And Credence and I will be meeting with Grindelwald. By the time we reconvene this evening, we should all have made some headway.”

And then Graves and Credence are off to meet with Grindelwald at the Park Avenue Hotel. Again, they walk, but Credence doesn’t mind at all. The fresh air is doing him good, he thinks, and besides, he enjoys simply spending time going along with Graves. In the hour it takes for them to walk all the way from Mulberry Street up to the corner of 34th and Park Avenue, Credence feels as if he’s seen the whole of the city, and it’s a _marvel_.

Here in New York City, people are wealthy enough to actually _afford_ automata, proper ones, beautiful and shining. There aren’t many, and they attract a great deal of attention, but Credence sees a conveyance pulled by a beautiful clockwork horse, and a clockwork servant following a lady on her errands. Clockworks, like the telephones, are new, but these are like the airships: innovative combinations of the non-magical and the magical, bringing things to new and interesting heights. They’re very complex and all still handmade, so Credence can only stare in awe. Even Graves is impressed.

They pass by Union Park, a beautiful green space, and Credence sees centaurs again, out for a stroll on a fine Thursday morning. “There’s quite the community in New York,” Graves says. “Not an uncommon sight.”

“Uncommon to me,” Credence says. “We didn’t have centaurs in St. Louis. This is so much more interesting.”

Graves is giving him that look again, oddly fond, making Credence blush a little. He doesn’t know what to do with it, or what to say. But he’s saved from having to make a choice by a sudden rush of traffic, and the moment passes.

And then they’re at the hotel.

 

***

 

“We’ve got to hunt down the Niffler,” Newt says with determination, looking around at this odd corps of discovery he’s collected after they’ve all been left to their devices at police headquarters. With Graves gone the station seems a touch less friendly, and Newt is anxious to get moving. At his disposal, he has Jacob, Miss Queenie, Mrs. Zhou, and Mrs. Picquery. All smart and competent and trustworthy. “It’s the one that will get us into more trouble than any other creature I’ve got.”

Mrs. Zhou raises her hand. “And what is a Niffler?”

Newt approximates its length between his hands. “A little creature—a bit like a mole, really, but far more intelligent. Very gentle but cunning and utterly fascinated by shiny objects. They can store just about anything in their pouches and they _will_. I know of Nifflers who’ve broken into _Gringotts_.”

“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Mrs. Picquery says. There’s a spark in her eyes that Newt very much likes. “So I suppose we should start where the shiniest things in New York City are.”

“And that is—?”

Miss Queenie gasps and her hands fly to her mouth. “All the way to the East Side?”

“Seraphina, if I’d known you were going to send us to the East Side, I’d have told you to send a pigeon and make them meet us there!” Mrs. Zhou sighs and picks up her hat. She looks long-suffering, but Newt isn’t blind enough to miss the way she’s looking at her companion. Something else is going on there, and he thoroughly wishes them well. “We might as well hire an omnibus and go.”

The fare, when they aren’t traveling all the way out of Brooklyn, is quite reasonable. The ’bus driver gives them a bit of an odd look, but Newt is so used to those that he doesn’t even care. And the rest are so busy talking that they don’t notice at all.

Upper East Side, it turns out, is the place where the crème de la crème of New York City make their homes. Miss Queenie informs them as they disembark the ’bus of the scandal when Mrs. Manson Mingott built townhouses here, in this formerly wild place, and speaks with starry eyes of the parties and operas and balls. It’s clear to Newt that she yearns to live in a place like this, but it’s just as clear to him that, with her honest and forthright demeanor, that she wouldn’t fit in at all among the women he sees here, women with doe eyes and shy staid faces.

Still, as they walk, Newt can’t at all deny the appeal of this wealthy place. It certainly is the kind of place which a Niffler would love: these houses gleam in the sun, filled with lovely shiny things. It’s a temptation, and it’s also a reminder of all the things that Newt came to America to escape.

“What are you escaping?” Miss Queenie asks in a low voice, turning to him suddenly.

“Oh—I—”

She must catch the thought, of the big estate and the disapproving parents and crushing pressure to conform, because she simply smiles and rests her hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I see,” she says, and doesn’t say anything more. Rather than feeling prodded, Newt feels…understood. Yes: he feels as if she understands him, and why he ran away.

He likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ought to have used the tag "The Ghost of Alexander Hamilton Haunts This Fic." 
> 
> In its early years, Tammany Hall was a part of one Aaron Burr's political machine. It stood in opposition to Alexander Hamilton's "Society of the Cinncinnati," and was used to win the infamous election of 1800. Burr was elected to the vice presidency in part due to the influence of the society--an influence which took an abrupt decline after Burr shot Hamilton in their infamous duel. Good old Alex was popular in New York City and being affiliated with the man who shot Hamilton was, well...not a great political move. 
> 
> The Park Avenue Hotel is now gone, but it seems an appropriate place for a decently wealthy foreigner to stay. You can see images here. http://www.nyc-architecture.com/GON/GON035.htm
> 
> Cool thing: I figured out what synagogue Tina and Queenie go to in this fic! It would have been Congregation Shaar Hashomayim, which was founded by German Jews in 1839 on Albany Street. It no longer exists, having merged with the Central Synagogue in 1898, but in 1885 was within walking distance of police headquarters on Mulberry Street. If Tina lived in the area, it would be easy to walk to the synagogue and to work! Historical conveniences…


	9. Chapter 9

Graves is not particularly looking forward to meeting Grindelwald again. Something about the man is just off, but there’s no reason for the feeling. The man brought Credence to New York and just handed him a fortune. Unusual behavior, but the kind of altruism that isn’t unheard-of. Nothing about any of it adds up at all.

There’s a lounge, of course, a place on the second floor with a view of the street. Hands are shaken and they sit. From long practice Graves knows he looks at home in this environment, but Credence looks twitchy again. Graves hates to see him so, especially after seeing him yesterday, brilliant and confident.

“I hear you’ve been having some wild adventures, Credence,” Grindelwald says, when they’re all settled. “Just two days in the city and already making waves!”

“I’ve been lucky,” Credence says. “Plenty of adventures.”

Grindelwald gives him a paternal smile. “Adventures are all well and good, but quite juvenile, don’t you think, dear boy? I believe it’s time for you to enter society as you should.”

“Now hold on,” Graves says. “You know that Credence was almost murdered on his first day in the city! He’s going nowhere without police protection.”

The look that Graves gets is calculating, but unreadable. “You haven’t caught the attackers?”

“No one attacked me yesterday,” Credence says. “How would we?”

“I’ll come to the point,” Graves says. He leans forward a bit. “Who in this city would mean Credence harm?”

Grindelwald looks astonished. “You think that I would know?”

“You’re the only connection Credence has in this city,” Graves says. “Perhaps you let something slip, and the rumor mill had some grist?”

“Perhaps,” Grindelwald says. He gazes off thoughtfully. “I can’t say if I did or not. I can retrace my steps for you, of course, and I’d be happy to do so for dear Credence’s safety. But it will take me time.”

“How _much_ time?” Graves presses.

Grindelwald’s brow furrows. “I think—why, I think by Sunday night, certainly, and that evening there’s a ball to which I have an express invitation. It wouldn’t be a difficulty at all to find an invitation for Credence, presuming he chose to go—?”

Credence sits up straight. “I would,” he says, “but only if you can secure one for Graves, too. I should like to feel safe while I’m dancing!”

 

***

 

“He didn’t want to give me that invitation, did you see?” Graves says abruptly, when he and Credence are three blocks away from the hotel.

“I did,” Credence says. He watches Graves from the corner of his eye. The man looks more than a little worried, and a bit angry. “Why are you upset…?”

“Because he tells me he’s concerned for you, but seems rather resistant to a police presence despite the attempted murder.” Graves shakes his head. “Well, at least we have the invitations secured, and space for another guest.”

Credence thinks about it. “Who else will you bring?”

Graves pauses for a long moment, thoughtful. “I’d like to bring Queenie,” he says at last. “Her Legilimency could come in handy, Sunday night. Lucky that the party isn’t a Saturday…”

“Why?”

There’s another pause, and then Graves says, a touch cautiously, “I don’t know if you realized, Credence, but Queenie and Tina are Jewish.”

“Oh,” Credence says, momentarily thrown. Then he shrugs, tucking hands in his pockets. “I’ve never met anyone Jewish before. I suppose that’s just New York, though. Where else could you meet all kinds of people like this?”

Graves laughs. “Nowhere, I think,” he says. “What do you say to finding out just where our friends have gone so we can join them looking for creatures?”

“I like that,” Credence says. He looks around, up and down the street, and smiles. He’d walk New York’s streets for hours, just to look and see.

They stop at a police station nearby and Graves makes a telephone call to headquarters. “Ah,” he says, rejoining Credence, “looks like they went off to East Side. You’re in luck—that’s the part of the city you’ll live in someday.”

It’s a bit of a walk, but Credence is glad of the chance to stretch his legs. He’s stunned by the beautiful brownstone houses, the _people_. He wonders absently how many of them he’ll see on Sunday night. It will be…odd. He doesn’t feel entirely at home among these wealthy people.

They catch up with the others in perhaps the most expected of places: being evicted from the house of an enraged woman. Credence and Graves hurry up just as Newt is tumbling out the door: “—and _stay out_!” the lady shrieks, slamming the door as Newt falls down the stairs. He crashes to the ground amid his compatriots and instantly jumps to his feet.

“Did you catch it?” Mrs. Zhou asks, looking red in the face and out of breath.

Newt holds out a little creature—soft and small as a mole, with twinkling eyes. “Yes!” he says, and a whoop goes up, unrestrained by the company around.

“Congratulations,” Graves says dryly. He’s smiling, though, as the rest turn to look at him. “Will we be receiving a complaint about this?”

“I returned all her jewelry!” Jacob says. He looks like he’s been laughing for hours. “Even if she wants nothing to do with us now, we ain’t given her anything to complain about.”

“Good,” Graves says. Credence can’t help smiling at it all. From attempted murder to a tiny creature stealing jewelry. What a day.

Mrs. Picquery dusts herself off and tucks her wand away. “It’s noon,” she pronounces. “Lunch?”

“Please!” Miss Queenie says. “I’m _starved_!”

Graves gives her a quick look. “I know a place down near headquarters,” he says lightly.

There’s a half a breath’s pause and Credence sees a real smile flashed Graves’ way. “It’s a good place,” Queenie says. “Tina and I’ve been plenty of times.”

Newt straightens up, having deposited the Niffler inside the suitcase. “Should we walk?”

“Absolutely _not_!” Mrs. Picquery says, laughing, echoed by everyone else.

“We’ve about crossed the city six times,” Jacob says. He shakes his head. “It’s a real adventure, but I sure am tired.”

“A ’bus it is,” Mrs. Zhou says. She takes Jacob’s arm companionably. “Let’s go.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the sudden chapter overload. I was out of commission again for far too long and now I've got a backlog...I'm really sorry. :(

Tina never expected to like _Langdon Shaw_ as much as she currently does. His eyes are far too bright and his voice is brittle, but he’s polite and enthusiastic and actually _talks_ to her. By noon, they’ve been to two archives and a library, studying newspapers and copying investment records.

All that research is tiring. And they’re both very hungry, so Tina finds a good vendor selling hot dogs—the best kind, he buys from the same maker that Tina and Queenie do at home—who goes the extra mile of serving with buns. Langdon, who’s never eaten street food before, is apprehensive, but Tina needles him into trying it. With spicy brown mustard on them, they’re good and hearty and will keep the two of them going all day.

“I just don’t see,” she says, as they take up seats on a bench in front of some storefront to eat, “how any of this fits together.”

“Neither do I,” Langdon says. He stares at his hot dog meditatively. “He’s in no newspaper articles, though he’s done some investment, and he owns no property in the States. All I can think is that we’d have to get into the Gringotts records to find something…”

Tina watches passerby as she eats about half her hot dog. An idea occurs to her: “Didn’t Graves say that he’s connected to Tammany Hall?”

Langdon, three-quarters done with his lunch, turns to give her a flabbergasted look. “Are you suggesting we try to get into _their_ membership records?”

“Maybe?” Tina shrugs. Indelicately, she licks mustard off the tips of her fingers. “Or look for, say, public records about them. They’re always in the news. Someone has to know _something._ Honest John asked Graves to go look after Credence!”

“He did _what_!”

It occurs to Tina that Langdon doesn’t actually know the whole story of just what they’re investigating. All that he has is a name. She sighs. “I think I’d better start at the beginning and tell you the whole thing,” she says. Langdon is watching her like a hawk, with that journalist’s expression. On an ordinary day, that expression means trouble.

Today, Tina rejoices to see it. Langdon is, despite his habit of obstructing justice and writing inconvenient articles for papers, an honest man. A good man. She’s got a new friend, she thinks, or will, very soon.

 

***

 

Despite the cheer of the day, the evening is a little more solemn. The reconvention at headquarters revealed that, though the Niffler was retrieved, many more creatures must be found: a Billywig, a horde of Cornish Pixies, several Fire Crabs, and an Occamy. There was little to report on the subject of Credence’s would-be murderers; likewise, Grindelwald’s background was so murky it barely even existed.

They break with a promise to come back tomorrow, and meet here. Jacob takes Newt and Langdon home with him; the ladies pair off and head for their respective homes. This leaves, of course, Graves to go alone with Credence.

He can’t deny an odd shiver of apprehension. Something about the way Credence keeps looking at him, maybe. Those dark eyes, open and honest, can’t hide anything. Something’s going on beneath the surface, and Graves can’t understand what it is.

At the house, they take some time for themselves—to freshen up, to make coffee, to discard jackets dusty from a day of walking about the city—and meet in the sitting room again.

“Well,” Graves says, “your first society party.”

“Yes,” Credence says, visibly apprehensive. “I must confess I’m not so certain that I’m excited.”

Graves nods. “They’re always more difficult than I think they’re worth,” he says. “But cheer up, I’ll be there and so will Queenie. You’ve nothing to fear when she’s around.”

Credence smiles. “That I believe,” he says.

They’re quiet for a moment. Graves is mentally reviewing everything he’ll need to know—dance, manner, and so on and so forth. As police superintendent he moves in plenty of high circles in New York City, but not in the kind of society that Grindelwald means. It’s impossible not to know these people: self-important, mostly, refusing to hold office and frequently uninvolved with the business of the city and yet still, somehow, believing themselves at the top of the world.

It’s all old money, the kind of money that will want little enough to do with Credence. How can he help but stand out? Graves has heard, vaguely, of the names that are mentioned in the society columns, patrons of the arts and the finer things in life. They don’t sound like Credence, and they don’t look like him either. There is nothing open and honest about them, except in a thin veneer that hides a particular form of desperation common to wealthy men.

This party is to be hosted by the Archers, a relatively young couple of great popularity. The wife is held to be a great beauty; the husband is held to be a standard of morals and decency. Graves can’t speak to either of those ideas. And he’s not exactly excited to find out the truth of it.

“Graves, I know that this is odd,” Credence says suddenly, “but I think I’ll stand out more than anyone even expects.”

“Oh?”

Credence is blushing hotly, color high in his cheeks. “I…don’t know how to dance.”

Graves lets that sink in for a moment. Then, with an odd feeling in his chest, as if his heart is trying to climb up into his throat, he rises to his feet. “I do,” he says, and offers a hand. “I’ll teach you.”

 

***

 

Credence wants to scream.

But he doesn’t.

He stands up, too, and takes the proffered hand. There are the fine calluses of frequent wand-work; not the hands of a gentleman. Graves’ hands are strong and sure and Credence is practically terrified of them. His own might be trembling.

Graves leads him to the hall, which is empty and wide enough. “Now, I don’t believe you’ll be asked to dance much,” he says. “If you are, you’re graceful enough that no one will comment.”

“Or they’ll comment and it doesn’t matter,” Credence remarks dryly. “I don’t care for the opinions of these people.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Graves says, gifting Credence with a smile. Well, now Credence’s palms are sweating. Dear God in Heaven, let him live. At least they aren’t holding hands anymore. “And I’m no dancing master, but I do have enough social graces to know _how_. Start this way.”

And Graves begins to walk Credence through positions. First is easy, heels together and toes outward. Second, right foot slid out with the toe on the floor and heel raised. Third, heel of right foot at a perpendicular angle to the left. Fourth, the right foot in the same position as the second, but more vertical. Fifth, do everything in reverse with the right foot, rise on the toes, and do it again with the left.

They do that together until Credence starts to pick it up naturally—it’s not so hard, not when he’s used to rote work. “Good,” Graves says. “Now remember, don’t hold a lady’s hand. Lead with fingertips, like so.” And he takes Credence’s hand again, with surprising delicacy.

“We only have Queenie coming with us,” Credence ventures. “She’ll be with you—I won’t have a natural partner.”

“There’s always some committee at a ball that takes care of things like that,” Graves assures him, breaking the dance hold to squeeze Credence’s hand reassuringly. “I go alone to everything. I know how these things go.”

_He goes alone to everything._ Something about that statement makes Credence ache. He doesn’t comment, though. “Now what…?”

“We dance,” Graves says simply. “For full dances there will be a caller who will tell you what to do and I’m sure any well-bred lady will help you out. It’s rude for her not to.”

“Isn’t that taking advantage of her?”

“Credence, they’re all going to try to take advantage of you.” Graves’ gaze is solemn. “New York society is vicious. Don’t let the satin and lace fool you.”

Credence bites his lip. “Oh…”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Graves says. “You’re better than all of them. Now, two dances you’ve got to know—waltz and polka. Easy enough, and you’ll pick them up quick. For the waltz, those positions you practiced? Do them, only smaller. And don’t sway to the music, keep your back straight.”

And then Graves’ hand is resting on the small of Credence’s back. Credence nearly jumps out of his skin, but Graves doesn’t comment. They aren’t very close together, but it’s close enough to make Credence’s heart pound.

He almost misses it when Graves starts to count—three beats at a time, over and over—but really does pick it up quickly. And then suddenly they’re dancing, really dancing, fluid and good, spinning round and round, traveling and pivoting down the hall, faster and faster with every single step. At some point they switch and Credence is leading, back toward the door, and he can’t stop smiling or laughing. There’s no music, but it’s…perfect.

They stumble to a halt, staring at each other, breathing hard.

“That,” Graves says, “was _good_. And if you can do that, you’ll pick up the polka in no time.”

“I doubt I’ll find any partner I’d like dancing with as much as I like dancing with you,” Credence says, the words falling out before he can think. He freezes, the floor falling away beneath him—

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then Graves lets go of Credence’s hand. He steps back, putting a respectable distance between them. But there’s some conflict in his eyes, and his words are entirely sincere. “I think the same thing,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time to CONFESS: this is a vague peripheral crossover with _The Age of Innocence_ , a novel by Edith Wharton, of which I am a ridiculous fangirl. The Archers are the married couple at the center of the plot, and previously I'd mentioned "the Mingotts"--who are a family in the novel. It's worth a read, although the events of the novel are some years before this one. Should give an idea of just why Graves is nervous about letting Credence loose in that society.
> 
> Dance position source was Bonstein’s 1884 “Dancing and prompting, etiquette and deportment of society and ball room.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The struggle continues. Sorry for the weird updates. :/

Friday’s crazy.

Really crazy.

Jacob is fairly sure that he must have lost his job by now, that the canning factory won’t even have a place left for him. Somehow, he doesn’t care. It helps that Newt has already promised to take him along, after this is all over: “Space in the suitcase for one more,” he’d said cheerfully.

And now he’s running all over the city with the strangest bunch he’s ever met. Two police officers, a circus man, a journalist, a millionaire, two suffragists, and a secretary—all with a case of animals like none ever seen in New York before. The most ordinary thing he’s seen today was a plain horse and wagon on Mulberry Street!

On Friday morning they set out again from the police headquarters. Overnight there was word of a Pixie infestation on the west side of the city, and so off to the west side they go. Jacob and Newt are in the lead, Newt talking a blue streak about what to expect. Jacob asks as many questions as he can: this is all new, and so much better than anything he’s had before.

Finding the Pixies is easy. Wrangling them, on the other hand, is not.

“If one more of these things pinches me—!” Shaw shouts.

“Hold still or I’ll hit you instead of the Pixie!” Ya Zhou says, and then there’s a bang and a yell from both hunters.

Jacob’s a little too busy to worry about them. He aims a Freezing Charm at the Pixie zipping around his head. It hits and the Pixie instantly stiffens, floating in midair. Jacob seizes it and hands it to Newt. “That was a nice charm,” Newt says.

“Thanks. How many are left?” Jacob asks, shaking his head.

“Not many,” Newt says, stuffing the Pixie into the suitcase. “I think I saw Tina and Credence and Seraphina run off after a few together…”

“Newt Scamander, I should arrest you again,” Graves says, bursting in the door. He’s holding…Queenie’s hat? The lady herself is laughing, disheveled, blonde hair falling down, and Jacob tries not to stare at her.

Cheerfully, Newt takes the hat, which is wriggling. “Good thought on catching them with this,” he says. “Not many more left!”

Jacob stands back and watches as Newt shoves the contents of Queenie’s hat—three Pixies, all squeaking and screaming—into the suitcase. “Nice catch,” he comments to Graves.

“Thank you,” Graves says. He wipes his brow. “If you asked, I would never have guessed I’d be doing this a week ago.”

“Neither would I,” Jacob says. “But hey, someone’s got to be the sense behind Newt’s operation.”

Graves looks at him and smiles. It looks good on the man. “I hear you’re the reason he caught the Erumpet at all.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jacob says. He shrugs and tucks his hands in his pockets. From the shouting outside, it sounds like the rest are coming back. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“There is no ‘along for the ride,’” Graves says firmly. He claps Jacob on the shoulder. “We’re all driving this wagon into the unknown together. And you’re one of the very few people here with sense.”

Jacob smiles. “We’ll see,” he says. “Really. I’m just happy to be here.”

 

***

 

Tina and Queenie make a graceful exit as the bright Friday afternoon draws on. Hearty good-byes are made, with a promise to meet again on Sunday before the ball. By that time, it’s certain that all of them are one a first-name basis. No one cares to stand on ceremony anymore, not after all this running and chasing of Pixies. Graves is glad all of those have been tracked down. And it’s lucky that they have been; Seraphina and Ya have a lecture they’ll be making tomorrow, and then a meeting, so they won’t be about. This will leave just the men to hunt down the missing creatures.

Since the suffragists have a busy day, they also make their excuses and depart for home. As a general agreement, the five men decide that dinner should be taken together. Langdon suggest a restaurant, forgetting that no one else can afford it and technically neither can he, but Credence immediately says that he doesn’t mind handling the bill. With his earnest expression and obvious desire to please, no one has the heart to turn him down. And at an expensive restaurant like this, the food is very good. Graves just decides to enjoy the experience.

“I almost feel as if we should give the Billywig up for lost,” Newt says, halfway through the meal. “It’s one creature in a whole city—and we won’t see many of its effects on people, it’s not so dangerous.”

“That I agree with,” Graves says. He looks around at the other four men. “Then that leaves—?”

“Fire Crabs, Demiguise, and Occamy,” Jacob supplies.

Newt winces. “I’d rather get the Fire Crabs,” he says. “The Demiguise is quite peaceful and intelligent, and very resourceful—and if we haven’t heard from the Occamy yet it’s because it’s found somewhere safe to hide. It can wait.”

“All right,” Graves says decisively. “Fire Crabs. What do we need to do, Newt?”

The rest of dinner is spent plotting and planning. In the morning they’ll go to the harbor and speak with people there, to see if anything has come up, and then start to visit the beaches and so on and so forth. It’s a fine plan, and one that will take the whole of Saturday.

When they go their separate ways, with promises to meet again tomorrow morning at police headquarters, Graves and Credence make their way back to Graves’ house. Graves is inexplicably nervous. His nerves have been afire since the dancing lesson with Credence last night. They’d fallen in so well together. It had been years since Graves had such—intimate—contact with anyone, and now he’s not entirely sure what to do with it.

He’s afraid, in short, that if he isn’t careful he’ll just kiss Credence.

And that, really, would be an unqualified disaster.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you see the trailer, everybody???

Credence hardly dares to ask for a dancing lesson tonight, though he knows he ought to practice.

He’s afraid that if he isn’t careful he’ll just kiss Graves.

And that, really, would be an unqualified disaster.

By nothing short of a miracle, Credence survives the dancing lesson. It’s even fun, and he manages to loosen up and relax. He and Graves sit up late, talking about everything and nothing. It’s good to have a friend, suddenly, even if Credence knows they’ll never be anything but that.

Collecting the Fire Crabs is a bit of a romp. Credence has the pleasure of watching both Langdon and Graves go plunging into the water in pursuit of a particularly obstinate crab, while he and Jacob and Newt stand on the shore and watch, laughing. When Langdon manages to seize the crab, Graves splashes him, and in short order they’re both completely drenched.

When the men on land laugh at the antics of the swimmers, Graves and Langdon both cast Water-Making Spells right into their face.

All told, it’s another in this increasingly long string of very good days. Credence’s smile seems fixed to his face and his cheeks ache from laughing. It’s wonderful.

Of course, something has to go wrong. At four o’clock in the afternoon, a mere block from police headquarters, Credence is walking up to a street corner. He pauses, making several men push past him, and looks over his shoulder to say something to Newt. In the same moment Jacob yells a warning and _tackles_ Credence.

A lamp-post crashes to the ground right where Credence was standing.

People scream and Credence stares with wide eyes. “You all right?” Jacob asks.

“I’m fine,” Credence says. “What—”

Newt helps Credence and Jacob to their feet. “I suppose this means there’s still an attempted murderer on the loose,” he says. “That does put a damper on things.”

Graves looks like a thundercloud. “Did you see who did it?” he demands of Jacob, ignoring the small crowd gathering around the light post. “Could this have been an accident?”

“No,” Langdon says. He’s inspecting the lamp-post and looks up. “Cut clean through. A Severing Charm, I expect. So it was someone who walked by just as Credence was in the way.”

There’s an expectant pause and everyone in earshot looks around warily.

“This,” Credence says into the silence, “is utterly ridiculous. Do we really think whoever did it is going to wave a hat in the air and confess on the street?”

There’s a general laugh, and people seem to relax. Graves shakes himself and begins to clear away the passerby, while Langdon and Jacob levitate the lamp-post back into place and fix it up. Credence stands with his hands in his pockets and watches down the sidewalk. “Newt,” he says, “did you see the faces of any of the men who pushed by me?”

“No,” Newt says. “I was behind you. Do you think—?”

“Who else could have timed it so well?” Credence asks.

Newt looks very thoughtful. “I wonder if they were following us,” he said.

Despite the general warmth of the day, Credence shivers.

 

***

 

Graves is inexplicably more confident about this fête with Queenie Goldstein on his arm. Dressed in a ball dress—bought with Credence’s bottomless inheritance—of pink, baring her shoulders, a train shimmering behind her, she looks like a princess.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“New York society will be captivated,” Graves assures her.

Credence gives her an earnest smile as they approach the door. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

With light hearts, they approach the door and are let in. The Archer residence is quite stunning tonight, lit up and glowing with the jewels of New York society. Women are dressed in the finest clothes, and a few gold-plated magical automata serve the crowd in place of human servants. Graves bears himself with a pleasant smile, and so does Queenie. Credence looks nervous and hangs behind them, but not too far. Graves is satisfied with the arrangement.

They’re quickly accosted by the hostess, and greetings are exchanged. She’s a guileless woman, pretty but not half so much as Queenie despite her far richer and more complex dress. It’s not long before her presence has attracted others, all curious to meet this young man of new money attempting to enter their society.

All at once Graves is accosted by some banker eager to talk politics, and he can’t exactly escape without coming up as entirely rude. The banker is courteous to Queenie, who sticks by Graves and waits for things to progress with a sharp attention to the room. He keeps looking to Credence, though, who is clearly doing his best. But he’s floundering, surrounded by company which whispers behind its fan and stares with too-bright eyes, and Graves is more than glad when Queenie steps away with a polite murmur to stand by Credence and help him fend off Society.

“And you’ve taken charge of him?” the banker—whose name Graves will never remember—says abruptly. “The police superintendent?”

“The world isn’t always kind to men of fortune,” Graves says neutrally. He doesn’t want to say anything about attempted murder, but all the same…

And then he catches sight of a strangely welcome man. Graves smiles and waits, waits for the man to catch his eye, and nods. He makes his way across the room, smiling and passing pleasantries, until he’s near enough for a conversation.

“Good evening,” Grindelwald says.


	13. Chapter 13

There’s a delay while dancing goes on. Credence dances with Queenie first, and then a succession of society girls fascinated by him and married ladies taking pity on him. He watches Graves dance with Queenie, and a graceful couple they make! Just the right height, and smiling at each other like a picture.

All told, despite the beauty of the night, Credence is beginning to feel a little worn thin. He’s very glad when Graves finally draws him aside and tells him that Grindelwald wants to discuss their business. In a sitting room out of the way, the three men sit and talk.

Grindelwald has little to offer, but says that one of his contacts—one George Abernathy, working at City Hall, might well be able to help. “He’s deep in the records,” Grindelwald explains, “and is a reliable fellow. You may trust him; if anyone can find someone who might be interested in Credence, he can.”

“You believe the attackers are connected to Credence’s past?” Graves says, and Credence perks up his ears a bit.

“They may be,” Grindelwald says. He pauses, and the strains of music from the ballroom float through the cracked door. “Credence, were I you, I’d begin to invest that money immediately, or donate it to worthy causes.”

“Why?” Credence asks. “I mean, I’d thought of some of the suffrage organizations…”

Suddenly Grindelwald is impatient. “You’re a fool not to invest in something for the long term,” he says. “My dear boy, you could leave your mark on this city with that fortune of yours. Perhaps a worthy organization, a political association—”

Graves sits forward and for a moment Credence sees a Wampus cat in his place, teeth bared and ready to spring. “And what political association would that be?” he asks in a pleasant, deadly voice.

“One which may help Credence fulfill his potential,” Grindelwald says. Credence’s heart _drops_. “I myself am associated with Tammany Hall. And I advise you, Credence, to affiliate yourself as quickly as possible. We may be able to protect you better there from whoever seeks your fortune.”

Credence speaks without even thinking. “No,” he says. “I’m not—comfortable—with society like this. I’ve no interest in giving to politics unless it’s for woman suffrage or temperance or something, so please stop asking. And Graves will keep me safe, I know that.”

There’s a moment of silence and Grindelwald stands up. “I advise speaking to Abernathy as soon as possible,” he says brusquely. “But that is all the help I can give. I wish you only the best, Credence.”

And then he’s gone.

Graves sighs. “That could have gone better,” he says. “At least we have something. We can pay a visit to this Abernathy fellow soon.”

“All right,” Credence says. Graves rises but Credence can’t bear to. “I think I’m rather tired of the evening, Graves.”

“I understand,” Graves says. He pauses, and then offers a hand. There’s something suddenly nervous about his demeanor, and Credence’s heart drops again. “Perhaps one more dance?”

 

***

 

And they dance, in the tiny sitting room, to the faint strains of music from the ballroom. No one sees, Graves knows, and yet…and yet. He can’t meet Credence’s eyes and Credence can’t meet his. They stumble over their own feet, but neither falls.

Why, oh why does it feel like everything has changed? Credence could have gone with Grindelwald, done what he came to New York to do. He’s on the brink of society, on the brink of greatness, but here he is dancing with a police superintendent instead. Graves doesn’t understand at all.

Credence’s hands are warm.

They stop dancing but don’t let go, just watching each other. The music ends and there is clapping, and Graves nearly feels like it’s applause for them. There are words, somewhere on the back of his tongue, and it seems like Credence is going to speak. An unspoken understanding passes between them. They have a shared character that dares not speak its name, even in such trusted company.

But Graves will be damned if he doesn’t try.

Queenie’s voice breaks the quiet from the doorway. “I think we ought to go,” she says softly, and when they turn to her she’s smiling softly. “You two had better talk somewhere much more private, don’t you think?”

Right. Queenie knows, doesn’t she? She knows his character…and knows Credence’s. If she says they have something to discuss, then they do.

“Yes,” Graves says. He lets go of Credence’s hand, but the electricity is still crackling between them, violent as the resonation of matched wand cores. “Let’s just—Apparate home—you both can Side-Along, come now—”

With a crack, they’re gone.

 

***

 

They’re all at Jacob’s apartment, in the end. A party atmosphere, holding their own dance with music provided by an enchanted teapot. Graves and Credence, who look like they’re about to explode and sound like it too, leave Queenie at the door and bid her a happy goodnight. And then they’re gone.

Queenie comes in without knocking to a general cheer. “Don’t you look splendid!” Langdon exclaims, kissing her hand. Queenie laughs and blushes, and at the blush hears the room thinking about how pretty she is.

“Don’t let me stop the party,” she says, taking a seat at the table, which has been pushed out of the way. Jacob is in the middle of teaching them all the mazurka, leaving all the ladies blushed with exertion and the gentlemen sweating.

“Right,” Jacob says, “again!” and waves his wand so that the teapot repeats the tune. Queenie watches and listens to the thoughts flashing past and thinks how marvelously different this is from that society party. No one stands on ceremony here, though they’re perfect gentlemen. Tina casts Newt shy looks and he returns flirtatious glances, Seraphina and Ya look as if they’d rather dance with each other, and Langdon is in a perpetual state of pleasant puzzlement.

“All right, enough of this—let’s have something else,” Seraphina says, as the dance comes to a close. Her eyes are sparkling. “Do any of you know how to jig—?”

“I do,” Newt says, “you know I’ve met some of Barnum’s performers and they taught me!”

Seraphina turns to Newt with her eyes flashing, and Queenie nearly laughs at the competitive thoughts racing through her mind. “Well, then, it’s a contest!” she exclaims.

“I’ll make the music!” Queenie volunteers, rising to her feet. She can hear the music both of them propose, in tempo and notes, and sees how to combine them.

“Which leaves us to be the judges!” Tina says, sinking down in Queenie’s seat. The other three join her around the table, watching with bright and tired eyes.

Queenie holds her wand over the teapot. “On my mark,” she says, watching Seraphina and Newt face each other, both set on victory. “Be fair with each other!”

“No fear there,” Seraphina says. “Circus dancing is nothing like the real thing!”

“I’m quite good,” Newt says. He glances at Queenie. “Ready?”

“Dance!” Queenie cries, rapping her wand on the teapot.

It issues a blast of music and suddenly they’re jigging, both of them, Seraphina’s heels clicking as fast as Newt’s shoes thump. They’re both graceful, Seraphina collected and vivacious as Newt is unrestrained and untutored. But they’re keeping up, moment by moment, neither stopping nor slowing, not an inch. Seraphina’s eyes are snapping and Newt’s cheeks are red.

“You can’t beat her, Newt!” Langdon shouts out.

“Dance faster, Sera!” Ya cries.

And suddenly they seize hands and dance together, faster and faster. They’re going round and round and their thoughts are laughing and then, all at once, they stop. Newt tripped, and he and Seraphina cling to each other in the middle of the floor. Seraphina’s hair is falling from its bun and Newt looks red as a tomato, and at the table the judges are cheering.

“Seraphina!” Ya says, and Langdon echoes. Jacob and Tina cheer for Newt and it’s a tie, so they all turn to Queenie.

“I won’t choose,” she says. She flicks her wand and the flowers in her hair rise into the air, multiply, and become wreaths. “There! Both of you are victors now!”

Oh, this is so much better than that society ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make a long story of the jig very short, there once was a man called Master Juba. He was a black danger active in the 1840s and was one of the first black performers in the U.S. to play onstage for white audiences. His real name may have been William Henry Lane (though since records are lacking this is a matter of dispute). In England, he found great success as a dancer during the 1848 season, and that’s where we get most of our records of him.
> 
> However he danced, it was percussive, variable-tempo, very fast, and unlike anything audiences had ever seen before. It likely incorporated elements of European folk steps alongside African-derived steps used by plantation slaves. His dance style had great influence on blackface performance, where new dance styles of the time were evolving, and therefore had influence on the development of styles like tap, jazz, and step dancing. 
> 
> Most critically, though, Juba began his career in Manhattan’s Five Points neighborhood—just down the street from where Seraphina lives. Black dance culture in New York by 1885 was flourishing. Newt, as a circus man, would have picked things up…much more on the fly. 
> 
> The description of the jig is inspired by the description of the jigging competition in Little House in the Big Woods.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys.
> 
> So...I'm calling this my proper clean slate. 
> 
> If I haven't responded to your comment, I'm so sorry. It's been over a month since I last managed to respond to a comment. It's about all I can do right now just to write, and somehow...comments fell through. I'm really, really sorry. I'm picking things up now. I'm really getting much more...stable than I was, and I'm going to make sure to get these things done. 
> 
> Going to do right by all of you, yeah? <3 Thank you all so much for your patience. 
> 
> Warning for serious conversation about period-typical homophobia and legal discrimination. In this period, these two genuinely could have been arrested and imprisoned, given fines, or sentenced to hard labor. A relationship like this genuinely could have been considered a “crime against nature,” which…yeah, let’s be glad that all but nine states in the U.S. have struck down such statutes.

Credence is trembling a little, when they’re alone in Graves’ house again. He can’t quite muster the nerve to meet the warm gaze of this man with whom he’s so quickly and stupidly fallen in love. It’s plain now that his feelings are returned, but the fear remains. Rejection, and all that comes along with it, is a terrifying prospect.

“Why don’t we…coats,” Graves says, waving a hand vaguely. He looks nervous, too.

“Right,” Credence says. He backs toward the stairs. “…coats.”

They meet again in the sitting room. Graves is in shirtsleeves and suspenders and Credence’s heart does a somersault. Judging by the way that Graves’ eyes sweep over Credence, he’s having a similar reaction to Credence’s waistcoat.

“So.”

“So.”

Credence sits down tentatively and Graves does too. They watch each other rather sideways. It’s not easy to open a conversation like this, even if they’d been perfectly ready to skip right over it when they danced at the Archers’ ball.

“Queenie hinted—”

Graves nods sharply. “—you too?”

Credence barely dares to affirm it. “Yes,” he says in the softest of whispers.

“Well, we’re in this together,” Graves says. Though he looks a bit peaked—this is a shock, Credence doesn’t blame him—his voice is strong and confident. It fills Credence with vigor, suddenly sure that all will turn out well.

“But you’re a policeman,” Credence says after a moment.

“The irony is _staggering_ ,” Graves says. “Were I a law-abiding man, I’d have arrested myself for crimes against nature a dozen times over.”

That’s terrifying, like being balanced on a precipice, and yet Credence doesn’t care. “I don’t mind at all,” he says. He bites his lip and fidgets with his cuffs. “You’d have to arrest me too.”

“I don’t plan on that,” Graves says. He hesitates a long moment. “That dance.”

“I meant every step,” Credence says.

Slowly, Graves’ shoulders relax. “We’ve known each other less than a week.”

“I thought about that,” Credence says softly. “But I like you. You’ve been very kind to me, you’ve taken much more time than you had to, you gave me a place in your house. I trust you.”

“Oh,” Graves says.

Credence swallows his nerves. He stands up and Graves does too, following Credence’s lead. The fabric of Graves’ sleeve is thin between Credence’s tentative fingers as he pulls Graves in and, with the hesitance of someone who’s never kissed anyone before, kisses Graves.

 

***

 

Graves cannot get himself to stop smiling the next morning as he and Credence return to Mulberry Street. There’s but one thing left to do, now, one creature left to find. And also they must go to City Hall to meet with this Abernathy.

A general cheer goes up when Graves and Credence step into the room they’ve reserved for this wild endeavor. No one _says_ anything, but Queenie enthusiastically embraces them, Newt tosses his hat in the air briefly before looking a little embarrassed, and Seraphina gives them both a wink. So it’s generally known, then, and no one minds.

“Well, I think we should get to work on the Occamy,” Newt says. “I’ve thought about it—the Demiguise will know, Dougal is quite intelligent.”

“Are you sure?” Ya asks.

“I am,” Newt says.

Graves holds up a hand. “A moment,” he says. “Credence and I have exactly one lead, and it’s a lead at City Hall. I also want to run with you all on this last adventure, if only because Occamies are choranyptaxic and I feel like you should have a police officer there to deal with…sudden size changes.”

Newt looks shocked, presumably that Graves remembers the Occamies’ special trait, but he recovers quickly. “Right you are,” he says. “We’ll all go along to City Hall, then!”

They walk, today; it’s only a half an hour of healthy exercise and on a fine day it seems a shame to take an omnibus. Graves and Credence go side by side, with Seraphina; she wants to chat with Graves, and he’s happy to do so. The others follow along in a loose pack, a merry sort of outing.

City Hall is familiar to Graves, the grand old building a place he’s spent plenty of time. Given the extensive records, there is some hope that this Abernathy will have records related to Credence’s family, to whoever might be after the fortune. Some cousin, perhaps? A disaffected business partner of the grandfather who left the fortune to start with?

The others have to stay in the lobby of the building while Graves, Credence, Tina, and Langdon head for records. They find Abernathy easily enough—a man with his nose in the air, a touch smarmy, but useful enough and knowledgeable. There are records of Credence’s family, but after an hour’s searching there’s nothing at all.

“Perhaps we should—” Tina starts, and at that moment the building shakes.

“What was that?” Langdon asks, turning his gaze warily to the ceiling.

Graves has a sudden headache. “I feel as if it has to do with our friends,” he says, already headed for the door. “Come on.”

 

***

 

It turns out that Graves is entirely correct.

It also turns out that Occamies are very, very, very large.

Credence stares up in shock at the vast iridescent beast coiling around City Hall. The Occamy is gorgeous, wings and feathers and scales in rippling blues and greens and purples. Its body is nearly as large around as a train car where it curls around the whole building, longer than a locomotive. And right before its beautiful head stands…

“Newt!” Langdon cries.

“Keep back,” he says, calm voice carrying well, “and someone find something small to put it in.”

“Small—?” Credence hisses, “it’s bigger than City Hall—”

Graves gives him a look. “Choranapytaxic,” he says.

Tina snaps her fingers at them before Credence can begin to reply to that. “Keep it together,” she says. “Graves, you ought to control the crowd—I know just the thing.” And she’s off in a swirl of skirts and an upraised wand.

“You heard what she said,” Graves says. He looks around and Credence follows his gaze to where the others are keeping back an increasingly unruly crowd. “Police presence—come on!”

“How did you find it?” Credence asks breathlessly as he runs up beside Queenie.

She shakes her head. “We didn’t—the Demiguise was protecting it, and it found us!”

Already Graves is pushing people back, assuming command with easy authority. He’s breathtaking, honestly, but Credence seems to be the only one transfixed. He feels himself redden a bit, and turns himself resolutely to the task of moving back the crowd.

With the police superintendent present, calm, and in charge, no one tries to argue as they’re moved back from the spectacle. Graves deputizes a few more men and, once other police arrive, the whole area is barricaded to stop spectators from causing trouble with the Occamy.

“Officials are still in City Hall,” Ya reports, when Graves asks. “And you’re about to have to speak with some others—notaries are starting to arrive, I think.”

“Who in particular?” Graves asks.

Jacob holds his wand like he’s ready to duel someone. “Seems John Kelly came out for this one, and there are circus men lurking around the premises.”

“Circus men…?” Seraphina stares a moment, then sighs. “I’ll go with Graves to speak to Kelly, the rest of you…protect Newt and that suitcase!”

Credence follows the others as they rush back up the streets through the police barricades to join Newt on the steps of City Hall. The Occamy is no smaller. If anything, it’s grown.

“Did anyone,” Newt asks calmly, looking up at the Occamy, “find—shh, dear, Mummy is here, please don’t get any bigger—something to put this in?”

“Tina’s looking,” Langdon reports.

Out of the corner of his eye, Credence sees movement. He glances that way and sees Graves waving from the edge of the square, clearly beckoning, a nervous and serious expression on his face. “I’ve got to go, I’ll be right back,” he says to Ya. He’s not entirely sure she hears; the Occamy looks to be growing again. Credence backs down the steps and hurries across the square. “Graves?”

“Come with me,” Graves says curtly. “We need someone reputable to talk to them.”

“You mean someone with money,” Credence says with a laugh, following Graves down the alley.

Graves looks at him. “Yes,” he says, “I do.”

A Stunning Spell hits Credence from behind and he topples.

The last thing he sees is Grindelwald looming over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see some old photos of the city hall building here: http://www1.nyc.gov/site/designcommission/public-programs/city-hall/about-city-hall.page


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mass posting. Fic is about to be complete, everyone.

Seraphina wakes up on the ground. The last thing she remembers is dueling some man who came out of nowhere with three other compatriots. It was a good fight and she’d taken down two of them, but a third had hit her with a Stunning Spell.

She staggers to her feet, balancing herself against a wall, and looks around. A few feet away, sprawled on the ground, is—

“Graves!” Seraphina drops to her knees next to him. A chunk of his hair has been cut off, she notes, touching the tip of her wand to his forehead. “Rennervate!”

His eyes fly open and he sits up. “Grindelwald!”

“What?” Seraphina demands. “How hard—did they hit you with a Confusion Charm too?”

“No, that’s who attacked us,” Graves says, dusting himself off. He stands up, nearly stumbling, and Seraphina rises more gracefully.

“Wonderful,” Seraphina says. “So Credence’s mysterious benefactor—”

“—tried to murder us,” Graves says.

Seraphina shakes her head. “This is not what I signed up for,” she mutters. “Do you think he went for us because of Credence?”

“Probably,” Graves says. He strides away, back toward City Hall, and Seraphina paces at his side.

“The Occamy is a distraction,” she says. “I’ve seen these tactics used before.”

“When?”

“Labor strikes.”

Graves has the grace to look embarrassed. Some of those tactics had been used by his own patrolmen against workers Seraphina was supporting. “In that case, I hope he’s not smart about it.”

“Why does he even want the boy?”

They’re almost to City Hall, and over the buildings Seraphina can see the Occamy’s great blue head and feathered neck. Graves sighs. “Credence turned down Grindelwald’s pressure to donate money to Tammany Hall,” he says. He looks visibly exhausted. “And there John Kelly goes, sticking his nose in things…I should have known what was off the second that I got the call to go and escort Credence.”

Seraphina makes a face. “How did you miss it?”

The man actually blushes. “I was distracted.”

“I have no sympathy,” Seraphina says brusquely, “you shouldn’t let your feelings get in the way of doing your job—”

They round the corner and see the group on the steps of City Hall. Seraphina’s eyes widen and she thinks she might have an attack of the vapors at what she sees: Ya, standing by Newt’s side, reaching up and ever so gently stroking the Occamy’s beak. It’s a stunning sight, like a painting. Better than a painting, actually.

“What were you saying?” Graves asks smugly, breaking her reverie.

“Nothing,” Seraphina says. She shakes herself. Doing her job. Right. “Let’s go find your Credence.”

 

***

 

They make it as far as the steps of the hall when all hell breaks loose.

From behind Graves there’s a shout, and then a spell whips by over his head, missing the Occamy by inches. “No!” Newt shouts, whirling around, “don’t—”

But the movement startles the Occamy, which lets out an unearthly cry and surges upward. Its coils thrash and strike the buildings all around, shaking houses and lashing. There are screams. Graves stumbles and catches Langdon’s arm as the young man falls. Seraphina dragged Ya out of the way and Queenie and Jacob have both dived for cover together. Only Newt seems to dare to stand openly in front of the Occamy.

“Where the blazes is Credence?” Graves demands.

“We need something to put the Occamy in!” Langdon pants.

There’s a flash of motion and Tina appears in the doors of City Hall, waving a teapot over her head. “I have it, Newt!”

Newt turns. “Hold it steady!” he shouts. “Jacob! _Now_!”

From the other side of the steps, Jacob rises to his feet and throws something—is it a beetle?—over everyone’s heads, toward the teapot.

There’s a breathless split second where the Occamy’s eyes follow it, and then it moves—hurtling through the air after the beetle, aiming right for the teapot, and it’s shrinking faster and faster and faster until—

No longer than a pencil, it seizes the beetle out of the air and falls into the teapot.

Tina slams down the lid.

They regroup by the doors, dusting themselves off, as people emerge from hiding places and patrolmen finally break open the barriers. Everyone is rather wild-eyed; Graves is sure he looks much the same. Even by New York standards it’s been a wild kind of day.

“Is that everything?” Jacob asks. He stands up from hiding, holding the Demiguise in his arms. “I mean, I tried to keep count.”

“It’s everything,” Newt confirms, taking the teapot gently from Tina’s hands. Queenie steps up beside him and peeks in, lifting the lid just a little.

Graves clears his throat. “Where is Credence?” he asks.

There is a lengthy and slightly uncomfortable pause.

“I didn’t see him leave,” Langdon says.

Queenie looks abashed. “Must’ve missed his thoughts,” she says.

“I thought he went with you,” Ya says at last. “He said he saw you.”

“I never saw him,” Graves says. He folds his arms. “So what—”

Seraphina sighs. “A chunk of your hair is missing,” she says.

“Polyjuice Potion?” Newt looks floored. “You think—”

“—he impersonated me to snatch Credence,” Graves finishes.

“Then where the blazes are they now!?” Tina demands.

“I don’t know,” Jacob says, looking past Graves into the crowd of spectators, “but here comes Grindelwald. And looks like he’s got some nasty people with him.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for an awful lot of prejudice. Directed kinda willy-nilly...it's period-typical, and I'll explain at the end.

Credence wakes up tied to a chair.

He feels a bit dull when he asks the first man he sees, “Who are you?”

“Someone very interested in the poor choices you’ve been making, young man,” the man says kindly. He’s well-dressed, behatted and suited as if he’s one of the upper-class gentlemen of the city, well-fed, with a well-trimmed graying beard and a watch chain. Of course Credence doesn’t recognize him; he doesn’t know anyone in New York.

“I’ve been making fine choices,” Credence says. He feels fuzzy in the head, but it’s not so bad, since he wasn’t really hit, only Stunned. “I’d like it if you’d let me go.”

“This is for your safety,” the man says. He pats Credence on the shoulder. “You must call me John, since I do think we’ll be good friends in the end.”

Credence blinks. “John…?” The name is tugging at his memory—someone important is named John, isn’t he?

“John Kelly,” the man says.

Isn’t that the man who hired Graves to look after him? The man from Tammany Hall? Pieces start clicking together in Credence’s head and he gets the inkling that he is in a very nasty position.

Kelly goes on, unaware of Credence’s thoughts. “I’m glad to finally find you and bring you into good company,” he says. “You’ve been running with street ruffians and disreputables!”

Credence scowls. “They’re fine people,” he says. “Just because Jacob’s a factory worker—”

“I’m particularly talking about the circus man,” Kelly says. “Or those two unnatural women—or, for that matter, Graves’ patrolwoman. There’s nothing wrong with fine hard work, and your Mr. Kowalski is an upstanding man. It’s the rest that concern me. They’re—”

“—just as fine as I am,” Credence says obstinately. “Why wouldn’t I be safe? I’ve been with Superintendent Graves since I came to New York!”

There’s a creak of a floorboard behind Credence. He swallows hard: there’s someone behind him, and he has no idea who. “Even the Superintendent has been revealed to be a man of…poor character,” Kelly says delicately, and Credence’s stomach _drops_. How does he know? Graves assured him it was a complete secret! “A young man like yourself, or like young Mr. Shaw, simply isn’t safe with him.”

“You’re the one who tied me up,” Credence points out. He plays with the ropes, subtly, wondering how long it will take him to untie himself from these. “I’d say I’m least safe with you! What do you want from me?”

“I’ll be plain, Mr. Barebone,” Kelly says. “You are being held for ransom.”

 

***

 

Graves is not entirely sure how he ended up dueling Grindelwald on the steps of City Hall, but here he is anyway.

It all happened in a blink. A few words had been exchanged and Graves demanded to know where Credence was, Grindelwald had claimed he was arresting Graves on behalf of the city, Tina shouted something, a group of thugs had closed in shouting about arresting everyone for disturbing the peace, and that’s when Newt pulled out his wand.

Now here they are.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Graves thunders, the spell rolling off Grindelwald’s Shield Charm. He chances a look around. Tina has one thug on the ground in handcuffs and is dueling another, Seraphina has three at once handily, Newt and Ya Jacob and Langdon are fighting, Queenie is nowhere to be seen and neither is Newt’s suitcase.

“You’d be better off just giving up!” Grindelwald snarls, pressing forward through Graves’ spells, handily swatting them aside. “Even if you win, there’s nothing for you here!”

“Where is Credence!?” Graves demands.

“Learning a lesson!”

That’s more than a little terrifying. Graves feels a surge of fury as he flings up a Shield Charm against Grindelwald’s newest assault. “Did you have me protecting him for his sake or for his money?”

“What do you think?” Grindelwald sneers.

“Get out of my way!” Graves hurls a Gouging Spell that should have cut off the man’s leg, but Grindelwald dodges just in time. Graves misses the spell that Grindelwald casts, aiming at the ground at Graves’ feet, but suddenly—suddenly Graves is _sinking_ , like the marble has turned to quicksand.

Grindelwald takes aim at Graves’ head. And then Tina comes in out of nowhere, shouting a curse that sends a lash of lighting crackling at Grindelwald. “Get out of there!” she shouts at Graves.

Honestly Graves doesn’t know the countercurse. And climbing out is out of the question—when he tries to plant his hands on the marble, as he sinks in up to his hips, they just sink in too.

“Someone throw a rope!” Langdon shouts, and then cries out in pain.

There are police sirens wailing, and Grindelwald is driving Tina back with maniacal fervor in his face, and it sounds like Langdon is injured and Seraphina is losing ground and somewhere in New York is Credence, lost and possibly dead.

Graves does not have time for this.

He’s up to his chest when he summons all his will, concentrating on the magic. With every bit of strength he has, he flexes his fingers in the cage of marble and thunders,

“ _Bombarda Maxima!_ ”

 

***

 

Something explodes outside.

The whole building shakes and all conversation stops. Credence looks toward the wall, the side where he heard the explosion, and wonders what the hell that was.

“That’s not good, boss,” someone behind Credence says.

“Has Grindelwald failed to apprehend them?” Kelly asks sharply.

There are quick footsteps and then another voice announces, “Looks like—there’s just a crater where City Hall steps were!”

“Damn,” Kelly says. He shakes his head. “It’s all gone to pieces, I believe. I warned him that Graves had the position for a reason!”

Credence looks up at Kelly, frantically trying to pull at the ropes while no one is paying attention to him. He just has to get this last…little…loop…

“They’re still dueling!” the man at the window reports. “And…Graves has Grindelwald on the ground! Looks like he’s in trouble!”

“Damn,” Kelly repeats. “Jack, I want—”

Kelly never does say what he wants. The last loop of rope slips and in the same moment Credence is on his feet. He knows how to fight—he was in plenty of scraps with other factory boys—and he’s not above fighting dirty when he’s without a wand. For lack of anything better, he swings the chair up over his head and cracks John Kelly with it. The man goes down and hard, and without looking behind him for pursuit Credence is off like a shot toward the nearest window.

It’s a story’s drop, but the shouting behind him says that Credence hasn’t got a better option.

He jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prejudice is a complicated thing, you know? The commentary about Credence’s companions is all founded in real policy of the Tammany machine. Jacob, as an immigrant Catholic (albeit lapsed) factory worker, was square in the machine’s sights as someone to sway for a vote. They would not have had a problem with Jewish Tina and Queenie; Irish-American and Jewish relations were actually cemented by shared experiences of religions/ethnic persecution (a charge initially led by William Grace, mayor at the time this story is set). 
> 
> However, Langdon and Credence aside as rich young white men, no one else here is safe. Tina, as a woman attempting to enter a man’s world, would be ridiculed and dismissed for “abandoning her femininity” and the “natural order.” Ya and Seraphina both would be in trouble on grounds of both their sex and their race. Boss Tweed, who was the head of Tammany Hall before Kelly, attempted to pass legislation that would have prevented Chinese immigrants from working at all in New York—although Kelly was not involved, presumably many policies and prejudices wouldn’t have shifted given other laws passed closer to this fic’s setting. The machine was involved gerrymandering in Harlem—redistricting the neighborhood to prevent black voters from gaining a majority there. And of course Graves, definitely homosexual, could be charged under sodomy laws—I kid you not, and this is the only sort of funny part about this whole thing, _For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge_. *cues an inappropriate amount of Van Halen*


	17. Chapter 17

“Where is Credence?” Graves asks, holding his wand to Grindelwald’s throat.

“You’d have to ask someone else,” Grindelwald sneers.

“ _Graves_!”

Graves chances a look up. And—there’s Credence, stumbling down into the crater that was City Hall, waving frantically. His heart leaps. “You’re alive!”

Credence rushes up to him. “I’ll tell you everything later—but more people are coming, we have to run quickly!”

For half a second, Graves contemplates where to go. Then he delivers a swift Stunning Spell to Grindelwald and stands up straight. “Mulberry Street,” he says. “We’ll all meet there—Side-Along the people who can’t Apparate!”

The plan goes off without too much of a hitch. News of the disaster at City Hall hasn’t reached police headquarters yet, so they have a little time to regroup. Credence informs them quickly of the plan to arrest Graves—information which hurts Graves rather less than he expected—and of the great force arrayed against them.

“There you have it,” Graves says. He surveys the seven others. “Conceivably, I’m the only one in legal trouble. If I turn myself in—”

“I’ll end up dead in a ditch,” Credence says, matter-of-factly. “The rest of you—”

“Do you think any of us will come off well?” Seraphina asks, giving Credence a hard look. “We were accessories to crime, and all of us are misfits besides. No, I think our best idea is to get out of New York altogether. Make a fresh start somewhere else.”

“I like that idea,” Langdon says with a smile. It fades quickly, though: “How are nine people supposed to get out of New York without being arrested?”

Newt thumps his suitcase down on the desk. “I have an idea,” he says, looking around at them all.

Graves feels a headache coming on. “Only if it’s safe,” he says, a desperate bid for sanity.

“Safe as long as you don’t bother the Nundu,” Queenie says cheerfully. She reaches out and flips open the locks on the suitcase. “I say we do it.”

 

***

 

Credence has never seen anything like the inside of this suitcase before. He’s the last one down the ladder, and so he’s the last one to see the suitcase as a whole. He comes down the ladder and steps out of the workshop and—

“Oh God,” Credence breathes, staring around.

Creatures. Impossible creatures. A whole circus’s worth—that great Erumpet, the Nundu, the Occamies, the Demiguise—and more. There are huge beasts, like cats, with octopus tentacles on their mouths. Walking sticks that chatter and squeak. The “Mooncalves”. And all of this promenading and prancing about habitats that are replicas of exotic locations: a jungle, a cavern, an icy tundra, mountains in the moon.

“I’m dreaming,” Credence says aloud, staring up at clouds of glowing…fairies?…overhead.

“Nah,” Jacob says, “we ain’t dreaming. Neither of us got the brains to make this up.”

They remain in the suitcase, exploring and wandering, while Newt carries the suitcase to safety, wherever he decides that may be. Credence doesn’t see Graves except in passing. There’s just so much to see, and it feels as if Credence may never entirely fill his eyes with it all. He walks with Ya and Seraphina a while, and then Langdon diverts him into watching the Thunderbird soar overhead. Graves is utterly taken with the Bowtruckles, and Credence sees Jacob and Queenie romping with the Mooncalves, and Tina sits by the Occamy nest and watches them with her chin on drawn-up knees.

It’s a halcyon that should never end.

But at last comes the knock on the suitcase that tells them it’s safe. The suitcase lid pops open and Newt’s face appears in view. “Come on, then, everybody out,” Newt says. One by one they scramble up the ladder, gentlemen first to help the ladies, and then they’re all standing in the train compartment. “Well on our way!”

Credence slides between them all to stand at the window. In passing, he hears Jacob ask, “Where are we going?”

“West,” Newt says diffidently.

“West!” Langdon says. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“‘There’—as if the West isn’t half the continent!” Ya says, to general laughter. The sound warms Credence’s heart.

Newt clears his throat. “Really we’re aiming at Arizona,” he says. “I’ve got to return Frank.”

“Frank?” Tina asks.

“The Thunderbird!” Queenie exclaims.

Seraphina snorts. “You named that magnificent thing _Frank_?”

Credence smiles to himself as the conversation goes on, people settling into seats, making plans excitedly. But he doesn’t look away from the window, which plainly shows just how fast they’re rattling on, away from New York City.

Graves appears at his side. “Ready for this?” he asks.

Credence shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “It was only two weeks ago I came to New York…I found a fortune and then I lost most of it, and…”

“It is rather sudden,” Graves says, leaning against the wall and watching the world roll past. “Will you be happy?”

“Maybe,” Credence says. “I just hope no one is…angry, about all of this.”

“Credence,” Graves says gently. “Listen to them. Do they sound angry?”

“No,” Credence says. He sighs and looks at Graves, who’s looking back. “Are you?”

“Never.”

That can’t be true. “I lost you your job.”

“I quit,” Graves says with a shrug. “I’d rather be myself with all of you than forever pretending back in New York.”

“Oh,” Credence says.

He looks away, and in that moment finds his hand caught in Graves’. Their eyes meet and Credence smiles. His heart might simply burst. Despite it all, this is the best thing he could have imagined.

And never in his wildest dreams did he imagine an adventure so great as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand that's a wrap!!!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for being so patient with me. It's been a rough, rough time lately, and this fic has suffered a lot for it. BUT, with this chapter...it's over. We're clear of "A Portrait of Two Gentlemen." I hope that you've enjoyed this wild little ride!!! If you're keeping your eyes on me for FB fic, I'm sure there's more to come soon. 
> 
> After all, not only is the movie out this fall...I'm officially halfway through the rewrite of the Hypothetical Sequel. 
> 
> Wish me luck, everyone. <3


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